


Spoils of War

by KKetura



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Family Drama, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-05
Updated: 2017-10-04
Packaged: 2018-12-11 14:45:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 35,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11716545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KKetura/pseuds/KKetura
Summary: When Jon and Daenerys make little headway on forging an alliance, they decide the only way to move forward is with a political marriage. But neither are prepared for the obstacles, both political and emotional, they'll be forced to face.Based on the promo for 7x04 and runs parallel to the season 7 plot from there and beyond.





	1. Chapter 1

Daenerys stood on the terrace overlooking the beach barely seeing it as a million thoughts ran through her mind at once. The loss of the Greyjoys, the Dornish, her _fleet_ , all clamored for top priority. _How_ could this have happened? It had seemed so simple when she had arrived in Westeros. She’d arrived with the greatest army this country had seen in centuries. She had a fleet to be feared. She had her dragons. She’d had strong allies.

Had being the operative word. 

An anger so intense it almost stole her breath washed over her. _Be a dragon_ , Olenna had said. Perhaps it was time she listened to that advice.

And on top of it all, she had a rebellious norther _king_ in her very home, refusing to acknowledge what was rightfully hers. The fact that she was starting to develop a grudging respect and curiosity for the man didn’t help.

 “You seem troubled, Your Grace.”

Missandei’s voice cut into her spiraling thoughts and she pulled herself back to the present. Thoughts of melting her enemies to piles of ash pushed back into the darkest recesses of her mind. “I _am_ troubled,” she said simply, glancing at her advisor and friend. “Is he coming?”

Missandei nodded, glancing out at the sandy beach. “He is, Your Grace.”

Daenerys let a slight frown pull at her mouth. “What do you think of this Jon Snow, Missandei?”

The woman at her side looked back at her, considering for a long moment. “His men are loyal to him. He has been down in the mines with them and the workers you have provided everyday this past week. I believe a man that devotes himself so, that has the love of his people, cannot be all bad.”

“Stubborn though,” Dany mused. “And what do I do with a man that is not all bad, but refuses to acknowledge any authority I have over him and his people—a people that control half of the land of my rightful kingdom.”

“I do not know, Your Grace, but it would seem that such a man could be reasoned with, if it helped those people. Would an alliance with him be so terrible?”

The man in question appeared around the rocks, his stride determined as he approached, stopping cautiously at the bottom of the stone steps. His gaze flicked from the four Dothraki standing along the terrace to Daenerys and Missandei. “Your Grace,” he said, and waited.

Dany had not spoken to him since she had given him permission to mine the dragonglass. Too much was happening, to many plans crumbling to ash around her to worry about Jon Snow and his foolhardy project. She was just glad that it had kept him occupied and out of her way.

She turned to Missandei. “We’ll see.” She started down the stairs, Missandei and her Dothraki guards falling in behind her. As she reached Jon, he did not bow, or even nod, just raised his brows expectantly.

“You wanted to speak with me,” she stated, hearing the slight irritation in her voice despite a poor attempt to hide it.

“I have something to show you,” he replied, meeting bluntness with bluntness. That was one thing she could give him; Jon Snow didn’t mince words.

She nodded and he turned to lead the way back the way he’d come. “It’s been more difficult than we expected,” he said after walking in silence for several drawn out minutes.

Daenerys glanced at Missandei who just raised her brows in question. “Oh, how so?”

He glanced back at her. “The entrance to the cave we found is narrow. Makes it difficult to get men and supplies in and out. And the dragonglass…” he trailed off for a moment, his jaw clenching. “It’s turning out to be more fragile than we anticipated.”

“What do you mean, fragile? You said it could kill these ‘White Walkers’ you’re so worried about.”

His expression flickered with dismay before falling back into his normal frown. “It can. Perhaps fragile isn’t the right word. It breaks in unpredictable ways. It’s proving difficult to work with.”

They arrived at the cave entrance, and indeed it was narrower than Dany had expected. Only wide enough for two, maybe three people abreast. Jon grabbed a torch driven into the sand, setting it to a brazier to light it before starting in.

She started to follow, but one of her Dothraki stepped forward as if to proceed her. She motioned him back with a frown. She knew they didn’t trust the northerners, but as Tyrion had advised, she needed to take productive steps towards building an alliance. Showing a modicum of trust that he wouldn’t murder her in a cave surrounded by her guards seemed like a safe bet to make.

The cave got darker as they went, twisting sharply back and forth, and as they got farther along, she started to notice the torchlight glinting off veins of dark, glass-like stone running through the rock. The sounds of metal on stone started to become more apparent as they went. Just as all of the outside light disappeared, the cave opened up into a cavern some twenty feet high and at least that many across, the walls completely glassy and smooth. Torches were placed around the area, providing light for the men chipping away at the stone.

Jon Snow stepped back, letting her walk past him as she looked around in awe. “There’s so much of it,” she said.

“Luckily for us. We’ve only just discovered how to remove larger pieces.” He held out a small piece no larger than her hand that she took and turned over carefully, the thin edges sharp as a knife. “Every time we would take a hammer to it, the glass would flake off in pieces like that one.”

Dany nodded and walked farther into the cavern, watching the men work. A large cracking noise sounded overhead followed by someone yelling. She started to look up in concern when someone slammed into her, nearly knocking off her feet. A huge chunk of glass hit the ground where she’d been standing, shattering into flakes of glass and dust.

Another cracking noise sounded and Jon yelled something that she didn’t hear as he pulled her closer, practically picking her up and swinging her around so he was between her and the falling stone.

Her heart beat thudded in her ears, mingling with the sound of his heavy breathing as they both waited for something else to happen. The smell of him washed over her, a pleasant combination of leather and something she couldn’t identify, as the heat of his hand soaked through her dress and into her skin.

The sounds of shouts filled the cave but no more crumbling rocks. “Are you all right?” Jon asked, his arm still firmly around her, the breath of his words warm in her hair.

She leaned back slightly and looked up at him, about to respond when she saw something shift in his dark eyes and he quickly let her go, taking a step back.

He started to say something when two of her Queensguard grabbed him and slammed him back against the glittering wall. The softness that she had just started to see hardened immediately, and something dangerous flashed across his face, his body tensing to react, before he went still in their grasp.

Daenerys felt the tension in the room spike. Several of his own men that had been helping with the mining started towards them, shovels and hammers in hand and at the ready.  

“Stop,” he commanded urgently, just as Dany said, “Let him go.”

Both sides reluctantly stood down, the northerners lowering their makeshift weapons and the Dothraki releasing Jon and stepping away, even if they stayed uncomfortably close. She motioned them away and they walked back over to where Missandei stood, eyes wide and wary.

Dany let out a quiet breath, jittery from the danger, and she was loath to admit, from Jon Snow. She looked back at him, ignoring the way her heart threatened to speed up again, and instead forced a wry smile. “Difficult to work with?”

He pushed away from the wall, looking uncomfortable himself. “Perhaps we should go back outside.”

“I’m sure that falling rocks are not all you wanted to show me."

Jon hesitated, obviously torn between wanting to deescalate the situation and showing her what he brought her there to see. Eventually he shook his head, turning and telling the workers to stop until they were gone. He glanced back at her. “This way.”

As they continued deeper into the cave past the working parties, she looked at him, appraising. She was still trying to figure him out. “Thank you,” she said after a moment. “For keeping me out of harm’s way.”

He looked at her, meeting her gaze for a moment before he nodded. “Did you expect me to just stand there and let you get crushed?” he asked.

“I know other men that would have.”

“Well, I’m not those men.”

“I’m beginning to become aware of that,” she said seriously.

He shot her a look, obviously taking her remark as sarcasm. She stared back, her face open, and eventually he looked away. Dany could have sworn he looked flustered.

The back face of the wall was not made of obsidian, and as they approached with their torches, Dany realized that there was something drawn onto the dark stone.

“Are those pictures?” she asked, stepping closer to examine the pictures engraved and painted into the stone. “What do they mean?”

“Look here,” Jon said, excitement leaking into his normally cool voice. He moved around her, lifting the torch, and Dany gasped.

A huge dragon, elaborately painted and engraved, filled the corner of the cave, breathing fire onto what she knew had to be a blacksmith’s forge.

“Is that—”

“Valyrian steel?” Jon finished, his eyes bright. “Yes, we believe so.”

Dany looked back at Missandei who replied with a small smile. She walked up to Jon, grabbing the torch out of his hand and walked back and forth along the pictures, examining each carefully. She could barely believe what she was seeing. How had no one known about this cave and the information it contained? Who had even carried this information to this godsforsaken island, leaving it buried for anyone to find? “Do you think a master blacksmith could make sense of this?” she asked, glancing back at the northman.

“I hope so,” he said sincerely.

They emerged back out into the sunlight, an excitement filling Dany that she hadn’t felt since she arrived at Dragonstone. She saw a group approaching from across the beach, Tyrion at the front.

“You didn’t have to show me what you found,” she said, not looking at Jon as she continued to watch the small group approach.

“And why would I do that?”

“You do realize what an incredible discovery this is? You could have used it to your advantage? Bargained with it.”

Jon almost shook his head, catching himself at the last minute. “You allowed me to mine the dragonglass. I owed you.”

She turned to him, at a loss for words. What kind of man gave away possibly the most valuable knowledge in centuries for a bit of useless stone?

 _An honorable one,_ a voice whispered in the back of her mind.

She forced the thought away and drew herself up, turning back to the beach. “How much of the dragon glass do you need?”

“If I could take the entire mountain back to Winterfell, I would,” he said, watching the approaching procession as well. “Have you considered what I told you? About the army of the dead?”

She still wasn’t certain she believed him. It seemed beyond imagining. She had seen her share of magic—she was magic herself—but the thought of hundreds of thousands of resurrected bodies led by monsters in the shape of men, she still had trouble accepting it as truth.

“Have you reconsidered my offer to become Warden of the North?” she countered, casting him a sidelong glance.

He shifted on his feet, obviously frustrated, turning to face her fully. “You know I can’t. I have a responsibility to my people. I came here to find a way to save them, not subjugate them to another ruler that would have them fight in a war they have neither the time nor the resources for. When the Night King comes—” 

“And what will you do when Cercei comes? From what I hear she rather dislikes your family.”

“I think she’s a bit occupied at the moment,” he snapped back.

“Then what’s to stop _me_? Once I have my rightful throne, I _will_ bring all _seven_ kingdoms to heel.”

Fire flashed in his dark eyes and he stepped into her. “You can threaten me all you like, _Your Grace_ , but I’ll be facing worse soon enough. You’re more than welcome to come conquer our corpses when you’re done playing queen down here in the south.”

“Well this looks cordial,” Tyrion said as his small group finally approached, stopping a few feet away.

Jon looked away and stepped back, obviously still angry. Daenerys composed herself and turned to her Hand, letting her expression ask the question. Tyrion nodded to the side. “If I could have a word in private, Your Grace?”

They walked out of earshot of the group as she watched Ser Davos approach Jon, talking quickly to him in a lowered voice. “What’s going on?” she asked, turning to Tyrion.

“The Unsullied have taken Casterly Rock,” he said quietly.

She quirked a brow. “Then why do you look like we’ve run out of wine?”

He grimaced. “The bulk of the Lannister army wasn’t there. The Greyjoy fleet was, however. Our fleet was lost.”

Cold rage ran over her. “And where _is_ the Lannister army?”

“They’ve taken Highgarden. Lady Olenna is dead.”

She ground her teeth together, fighting to maintain her composure as her cold rage flared white hot, battling with the wave of disbelief that hit her. Overhead one of her dragons screamed. She turned and started back towards the main group. Tyrion hurried to catch up. 

“We still have options—”

“Enough with the clever plans,” she snapped, now knowing what she had to do. “I am a dragon. I’m going to _be_ a dragon,” she said to herself, her hands clenching.

“Something’s happened?” Jon Snow asked, frowning as she approached.

She swallowed down her anger and the humiliation she felt at what she was about to do. “All my allies are gone.” She stopped in front of him. “I’m losing.”

“What will you do?” he asked quietly.

“I’m going to take my dragons and my Dothraki and I am going to crush my enemy’s army. I’m going to do what I should have done when I first arrived in this country.” She saw him suck in a sharp breath. “But I still need allies. When you said I didn’t want to kill thousands of innocent people, you were right. That’s why I need you. What do we need to do to solidify our alliance?”

“You want the North. I cannot give that to you.”

“You can.” She took a deep breath and plunged on. Desperate times and all that. “If we form a political alliance through marriage, you would remain King in the North, would you not?”

The look of surprise on his face was almost comical, and he took a physical step backwards. He glanced over at Davos who just shrugged in response, also seemingly at a loss. Jon looked at the others gathered, Tyrion and Varys and Missandei, as if they were playing a joke on him before looking back at her, frowning. “Marriage? To me?” He paused, his brows furrowing even more than normal. “You know I’m a bastard—”

“I can legitimize you if that would make you feel better about it.” She watched him work through all that she had said, the shock allowing his thoughts to show on his face.

“If I say yes, you would provide your full support when we needed it?” He glanced up at the circling dragons overhead, the implication obvious.

She pursed her lips, not wanting to say yes, but knowing that she had to. Either he was telling the truth about the White Walkers and the Army of the Dead and she wouldn’t have a choice in fighting them whether they married or not, or he was lying and her support would never be needed. “I would,” she said firmly. “What say you, Jon Snow?”

He squared his shoulders, his gaze locking with hers. “I accept.”

“Good.” She turned to Tyrion who was watching them with a small look of surprise on his own face. “Send word. We march on King’s Landing.”

Her Hand nodded. “Your Grace, ah, are you planning to have the wedding before you leave?”

She glanced back at Jon who still hadn’t moved. “Might as well get it over with,” she said and started down the beach towards the stairs to the castle.

“You’re sure about this?” Tyrion asked, an uncharacteristic look of uncertainty on his face.

“He just showed me information that may allow us to forge new Valyrian steel.”

Tyrion almost stopped in his tracks. “What?”

Dany cast him a knowing look. “There are worse men to marry. Do you have a better alternative? Some other way to secure the North? Someone better for me to marry at the moment?”

“I do not. I just wanted to ask if you were sure.”

She gave him a small, appreciative smile. “I am. As sure as I ever am. We need allies, Tyrion, and now we have one.”

Dany kept walking. She had a wedding to prepare for, and an army to destroy.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for the comments and kudos! Right now I have this up as a two-shot, but guessing how the show's going to go, I have a feeling I'll be back here to add a chapter or two. 
> 
> Thanks for reading and hope you enjoy!

Jon watched Daenerys walk away, his head spinning as a million different thoughts ran through his mind at once.

Davos stepped up next to him. “I guess congratulations are in order.”

“What just happened?” he asked.

“I believe you just secured us three dragons and possibly an army in the war against the dead men. I admit, I was not expecting that.” Jon shot him a look. “Not the bit about you getting us her help, just the marriage bit,” he clarified, hurriedly.

Jon shook his head, and forced himself to start down the beach after her.

She disappeared back up the stairs and Tyrion walked back to them. “We’ll hold a small ceremony tonight. She’s leaving tomorrow.”

“Fine,” Jon said, not slowing his pace. Maybe when it was done, they’d let him leave. He could take what dragonglass they had and the instructions for the Valyrian steel and start distributing it among the Northern Houses, most of which were probably not going to be that happy about the decision he just made. _If_ she let him leave. The power balance was still too skewed in her favor for him to make any realistic demands.

“Congratulations then—”

“I don’t _want_ congratulations. I _want_ to get this over with. I want to _leave_. There’s too much to do and no time to do it.”

“I’m sure that can be discussed before she leaves tomorrow.”

Jon made a frustrated noise and kept walking. He was out of his element. Give him a sword and an enemy and men to fight with any day over anything he had to deal with on this island.  Daenerys unnerved him in a way that no one else ever had. He’d arrived at Dragonstone fully expecting a spoiled, rich girl with too much power making demands that she had no right to make. Instead he found a woman, fully aware of herself and her goals, that inspired such devotion in her followers it sent chills down his spine.

And now he was going to marry her.

His steps slowed slightly at the thought before he caught himself and sped up again. If there was one thing he’d never expect to happen in his life, it was get married. Since he’d been young, he knew that no one would want a bastard for a husband. Then, after joining the Night’s Watch, any sliver of a dream he’d carried had completely died.

Then Ygritte had shattered everything. He’d loved Ygritte with all he had. The memory of her still stung and made his breath catch. But he’d known that it would end. There had been no dreams of a future beyond their present. There’d only been the here and now, a fierce devotion to living that consumed them from the inside out.

What he was about to do with Daenerys was completely different. A part of him wanted to grab Tyrion, and tell him it was a mistake. Jon Snow, Bastard of Winterfell couldn’t marry Daenerys Targaryen, Mother of Dragons, Breaker of Chains, and so on. It was ludicrous. Another part of him knew that he’d stopped being able to do what he wanted a long time ago.  

He caught Tyrion looking at him as they walked. “What?” he snapped.

“From the deeper-than-usual frown on your face, I’m going to guess you’re having second thoughts.”

“Second thoughts? No. This is the right thing to do.”

“But you still don’t want to do it,” Tyrion observed with a small smile. “I understand all too well. Had the same dilemma myself when I was told I had to marry your sister. Except then it wasn’t the right thing to do, and I had second, and third, and possibly even fourth thoughts about it. And Sansa was a child at the time…”

“So not the same at all,” Jon said mirthlessly.

“The reluctant marriage part I understand.” He fell silent for a too short period of time. “You should cheer up. Men would kill to be in your position right now.”

“I suspect many will try.”

Tyrion frowned, searching. “She’s very beautiful.”

“I have eyes.”

“Yes, well… I’m trying to help you here.”

Jon sighed and looked over at his companion. “I appreciate it. I do.”

“Good. I do hate to be underappreciated.”

They arrived at the entrance and Tyrion clapped him on the back. “I’ll see you this evening. I suspect I’ll be rather busy till then, and you’ll be rather busy after.”

Jon watched him go with a scowl and then turned back towards the ocean, watching the harsh waves crash against the distant rocks, and listening to the dragons scream overhead.

 

* * *

 

Jon found himself at his wedding feast, sitting at a long table in front of a room of people celebrating far more than he was.

The ceremony had been small and simple and an odd combination of traditions. They’d held it in the cold throne room, partially filled with the northern men he’d brought with him, a collection of Dothraki, Davos, Varys, Missandei, and Tyrion.

At one point, one of Daenerys’ Dothraki had approached, saying something in what Jon assumed was their language, and offering her a selection of weapons. She replied in kind and turned to look at him expectantly. He just stared at her for a long moment before realizing he was supposed to take them instead, gathering them up awkwardly. Davos had then rushed up and took them out of the way.

There was no septon or priest, so Tyrion ran the show instead. The bulk of the ceremony was more like a northern wedding than Jon would have expected. Simple words exchanged, vows made. There had been no time to have cloaks made, and Jon didn’t know what he would have put on his if there had been. Instead he ended up using the cloak Sansa had made him, draping it over her shoulders, watching the fur swallow her small frame, her white hair a stark contrast to the dark collar.

The kiss was like everything else - short, simple, and to the point.

“You’re quiet,” Daenerys said softly after some time had passed with relative silence between them. She’d draped his cloak over the back of her chair in the growing heat of the room.

He looked at her, letting himself take her in for a long moment,  to realize just how breathtaking she really was. “I apologize. I’ve never really been one for feasts.”

“You didn’t have feasts in Winterfell?” she asked, turning slightly in her chair towards him.

He suppressed a grimace and all the memories that sprung up at the question. “We did. I just never got to sit at the table.”

“We didn’t have feasts like this back in Essos. Viserys and I had to remain hidden most places we went while we were on the run from Robert’s assassins. The traditions in the Free Cities were different than here.”

“It must have been difficult,” Jon said, and he meant it. He couldn’t imagine growing up the way she had. There were things he would change about his life, but he at least had had a home and a family, still did.

“I imagine we’ve both had our difficulties over the years, yet here we are.”

“Here we are.” He gave a self-depreciating laugh and shook his head. He grabbed a glass of wine and took a long pull, trying to think of something else to talk about and only coming back, over and over again, to the White Walkers.

“Ser Davos said you were the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. I’ve heard the Wall is very impressive.”

Jon glanced at her, wondering if she could sense the direction of his thoughts. “It is.”

“Why did you leave?” she asked, watching him closely. “You don’t seem like the type of man that would break an oath lightly. Not one you’ve given yourself at least.”

Jon’s heart picked up, and he fought down the urge to reach up and rub the wounds on his chest. “That’s a long story.”

“We seem to have time.”

“It’s not a story for here,” he said finally. He didn’t want to talk about it, to anyone, anywhere, but he imagined it would have to come up eventually.  

Daenerys sat back in her chair, sipping on her own wine. “I see.

They went back to staring at the revelers, the noise in the room making the silence between them that much thicker.

What felt like an eternity later, Tyrion, probably drunker than he should have been, came over to stand in front of their table. “A toast!” The room roared in response. “To the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms! And the King in the North! Long may they reign!”

The room filled with differing responses, the Stark men echoing Tryion, the Dothraki shouting, and a cacophony of other noises. Jon shifted uncomfortably in his seat and shot a glance at Daenerys who seemed perfectly at ease with the entire situation.

“And now,” Tyrion continued, shouting to be overheard over the noise. “No wedding is complete without a bedding!”

The shouts got even louder and Jon let out a long sigh. Apparently when Tyrion had explained the custom to Daenerys she had expressed, in no uncertain terms, that the traditional bedding ceremony was _not_ going to take place. However, she had agreed to allow the guests to escort them. Jon wished she had just said no to all of it.

They both stood and Jon held out a hand to his new bride. She took it, her hand cold in his, and they stepped down from the table into a swirling mess of humanity. The guests surged around them, shouting advise and recommendations that made Jon want to sprint out of the room. He started to speed up, but Daenerys’ hand tightened on his and she shot him a knowing glance. He just grit his teeth and resigned himself to the catcalling. It was going to be a long walk.

 

* * *

 

 

Dany heard the door close behind her and let out a deep breath. This was not like her first wedding night, she told herself, again. She was not that helpless girl. This had been her choice.

She turned to find Jon still standing by the door, an almost pained look on his face. “You should probably get comfortable,” she said, walking over to the table and pouring two glasses of wine. She turned and held one out, waiting.

Jon pushed off the door and walked over to her, taking the proffered glass. He turned it over in his hand, staring at the red liquid. “We don’t have to do this… if you don’t want to.” He looked up at her, his dark eyes serious.

She smiled slightly, taking a small sip of wine before setting the glass down. She reached up and pulled her three headed dragon pin off her dress, releasing the chain and cape attached to it. She caught it as it fell and laid it over the chair by the table.

Jon let out a long sigh and started untying the straps of his leather armor, slipping out of it with a practiced ease that reminded her, again, that it wasn’t for show. The leather gambeson he had on underneath looked worn and soft, and Dany stepped up to him, laying a light hand on his chest.

He froze under her touch and for a moment, she thought he was going to pull away. Instead, he brought his hand up, running his thumb along her jaw until his hand slid to the nap of her neck, tangling in her hair. Dany felt the shimmer of something shoot through her and her hand drifted to the laces on his chest, plucking at the leather.

His free hand grabbed hers, stopping her from fully unlacing the first row. She started to protest but was cut off when he kissed her. It was more a question than a kiss, a slow caress of warm lips that caused heat to shoot through her. She brought her other hand up and pulled him closer, deepening the kiss, learning the taste of him, till she felt the breath go out of him and he pulled back abruptly.

She forced herself not to show how much she wanted to just pull him back in. She quirked a brow instead and stepped out of his grasp, watching the way his breath caught at the loss of contact. Maybe this wouldn’t be as bad as she thought.

She sat down at the table and he eventually followed suit, eyes following her every move. She worked the clasps on the front of her dress, struggling out of the stiff, structured outer shell and tossing it behind her, before shimmying her pleated underskirt off and tossing it on the pile. She leaned back in the chair with a sigh, still fully covered in her thin, dark chemise and pants.

Jon leaned forward across the table, toying with the untouched glass of wine in front of him. “You’ve done this before.”

Dany felt her heart stutter at the reminder, some of the languidness that had started to seep into her vanishing. “Seduce a man I barely know?” She picked up her own glass and took a long sip. “Just once.”

“They said you were married.”

“He died,” she said sharply, unable to keep the bite from her voice. “I loved him.”

She watched a haunted expression drift across Jon’s face and he looked away towards the fire in the hearth. “I’m sorry I brought it up.”

“You lost someone as well.”

A small, sad smile crossed his face, his eyes distant. “We weren’t married…or maybe we were, as much as we could have been. I was hers and she was mine. That’s all that mattered.”

“What happened?”

“She put three arrows in me, and someone else I cared about put an arrow through her heart.”

Dany stared at him in silence, seeing her own grief reflected in his face. She lifted her glass. “To lost loves. To Drogo.”

Jon lifted his own. “To Ygritte.

They drank in silence, both lost in thought, until the sharp crack of the fire startled them both back to the present. Dany set her empty glass down and stood again, motioning towards him. “Your turn.”

He frowned in confusion and stood as well. “What—” he started to ask as he stepped towards her, but cut off when she ran her hands over his chest again, reaching for the laces of the gambeson. He went still as she tugged at the leather, almost reaching up to stop her. She paused and looked up at him with a small frown of her own. “What is it that you don’t want me to see?”

He let out a heavy sigh, a resigned look on his face, and in response reached up and tugged the gambeson and the shirt underneath over his head, letting them drop to the floor beside them.

Dany stared at his chest with wide eyes, her hand coming up almost unconsciously to slid across the deep, deep scars, coming to rest on the crescent shaped one directly over his heart. “What Davos said was true… How…?”

She could feel his heart thudding under her hand and when she looked up to meet his gaze she saw a reluctance so deep it was almost pain. Whatever had happened to him had shaken him to his core. She understood that look, had felt the same way after Drogo had died and she’d stepped out of the fire only to have to brave a desert. Maybe this was Jon’s desert. She’d come out the other side stronger. Jon would too, he just needed a little more time.

“I’ve seen worse,” she said with a small smile.

Jon let out a pent up laugh, some of the tension leaking out of his shoulders. “On dead men, I suppose.”

She reached up, pulled her shirt off, and watched the breath leave his body.

After living with the Dothraki for so long, even going back to her time with her brother, Dany didn’t have a problem with nudity, but Jon stood for so long, just looking at her with heat in his eyes, that she started to feel the beginnings of a blush. She started to move forward the same time he did, the two colliding in a tangle of arms and hands and lips. He yanked her into him, one hand at the small of her back, twisting around the belt of her pants, his knuckles kneading her spine while the other tangled in her hair again.

Dany pulled at his own hair, pulling it loose as she pressed herself closer, gasping at the feel of his tongue against hers. She ran her nails over his scalp and he moaned, pulling back to meet her hooded eyes. “Boots,” he said, breathlessly.

Dany blinked. “What?”

“Take off your boots.”

She looked down, still in a daze, and realized they were both still fully clothed from the waist down. They broke apart in a rush, Dany stumbling over to the bed to pull at her footwear, tossing it across the room.

She was just starting to reach for the buckle of her belt when Jon was there, kissing her again. His hands ran up her bare stomach, finally reaching her breasts as he pushed her back against the furs of the bed. He moved back down, grabbing her hips and half tossing her farther onto the bed. She pushed herself up onto her elbows, watching as he unbuckled her belt and then peeled the remainder of her clothes off to join the forgotten garments littering the room.

He paused at the bottom of the bed, looking at her, and she scowled. “You don’t know me well, Jon Snow, but I dislike waiting.”

He grinned and Dany couldn’t help but think how much younger it made him look. He moved up next to her, hands and mouth leisurely skimming her skin, lingering on her breasts until she could barely breath. She pulled him up to her, claiming his mouth as he settled between her legs, and slowly slid in.

It didn't take long for Dany to lose herself in the rhythm of their bodies and Jon followed a short time after, both of them collapsing into the furs damp with sweat, their breath coming in pants.

Jon started to shift his weight off of her but she held him still, her nose against his shoulder, memorizing the smell of his skin. He reached up, brushing a strand of hair off her face. “You should get some sleep,” he said softly.

She twisted her finger around one of his curls, so like her own, and tugged it gently. “So should you. You’re sailing for Winterfell after all.”

He pulled back, looking down at her with a hint of confusion. “I thought—”

“You have everything you need. Go home, Jon. Prepare your people. When the South is secure, our armies march North.”

His expression shifted, opening up just enough that Dany realized there was so much more she didn’t know about this man that was now her husband by every law in the land. He leaned in and kissed her lightly but with a warmth that made her chest hurt.

They settled back into the furs, wrapped around each other, both thinking of the morning.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon returns to the North.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought I was going to hit a wall with this chapter and then quickly realized that I was going to have the opposite problem. I gloss over some stuff here, like Jon and Arya's reunion because that could have been a chapter all by itself, and I'm trying to keep this semi-focused on Jon and Dany. 
> 
> Also, POSSIBLE SPOILER ALERT. I add a plot point in here that I've seen batted around the internet and I strongly suspect it's from the plot leaks. I don't know for sure cause I've been avoiding them like the plague. I don't think it's a huge reveal or anything, but I wanted to let you guys know so you can run for the hills if you want. 
> 
> Enjoy and thank you to everyone and your amazing responses! They're almost better than coffee. Almost ;)

Jon finished buckling his belt and let out a long sigh. He’d woken to an empty bed and extreme confusion, his emotions a jumbled mess. When he’d realized she was actually gone, he’d dragged himself out of bed and dressed, finding his clothes in an organized pile, along with his cloak, and of all things, his weapons.

He walked to the door, the familiar weight of Longclaw on his hip almost relaxing as he pulled the door open and stopped short. Missandei waited for him in the hall a small smile on her face. She nodded respectfully. “Your Grace,” she said, and Jon frowned at the title coming from her. She’d never used it before. “The queen asked me to meet you. She had matters to attend to before her departure.”

“She’s gone then?” Jon asked, not wanting to feel the disappointment that hit him in the chest.

“No, Your Grace. She’s preparing to leave. I can take you to her.”

Jon nodded and followed her out. They found Daenerys outside the castle, in the grass of one of the many cliffs, staring up at the sky. Missandei stepped aside and Jon walked past her, approaching Daenerys slowly.

She glanced at him, and he swore he saw genuine warmth in her eyes. “I made sure your men were informed of your departure. Your ship should be ready by noon.”

Jon stopped next to her, his shoulder brushing hers. “You’re riding one of the dragons to the mainland?”

“Drogon, yes.”

“You should have gotten more sleep last night.”

“I believe that was not entirely my fault.”

She looked at him and he looked back, a heat blooming between them even as they both searched for an answer to the question of how they actually felt about each other. Jon ripped his eyes away and gazed back at the ocean, his heart thudding in his chest as if to tell him that he didn’t need to keep searching for long.

“I need you to do something for me,” Daenerys said.

Jon turned towards her and waited.

She looked down, then turned towards him as well, raising her head. “I believe you, Jon Snow. I know the threat we face is real, that we will need every able-bodied man, woman, and child to fight in the war to come.”

Jon tensed. “But?”

“Once King’s Landing has fallen, I will rally the southern Houses. Many of them will not believe what you have seen on my word alone. We need proof.”

Jon let out a long breath, the familiar ball of fear that he felt anytime he thought of facing the White Walkers again rolling over in his stomach. “We’ve sent pieces of wights to King’s Landing before. It did no good.”

Daenerys nodded. “What about a living one? Or undead? Whatever you would call it.” Her brow crinkled slightly, trying to find the right word.

Jon forced himself not to get distracted by the sight of her. The idea of capturing a wight played out in his mind and he shook his head slightly even as he said, “I can try.”

Daenerys looked up at him again, determination shining in her blue eyes. “I will send what help I can, depending on how long the siege takes.”

Someone cleared their throat nearby and they both turned to see Ser Davos standing next to Missandei, both of them sporting small half smiles. “Your Grace,” he said to Daenerys before looking at Jon. “The men are ready. We’re going to start boarding shortly, Your Grace.”

Jon nodded and looked back at his wife. “This is goodbye, then.”

“For now.” Her lips quirked in a slight, sad smile, a look of reluctance crossing her face. “I hope the winds are kind.”

Jon leaned in and kissed her before he thought about stopping himself, memorizing the taste of her one last time. “Be careful.”

Dany brushed a hand over his jaw and stepped back, the reluctance in her eyes replaced by fire. “You will not die. That is an order from your Queen.”

Jon smiled with sad amusement, knowing he could never make that promise, and stepped back, forcing himself to turn and walk away.

 

* * *

 

Sansa handed the leather covered breast plate back to the black smith and nodded. “Excellent work, Master Mikken, that is much better.”

The man bobbed his head and went back to his work. Sansa watched for a moment and then turned, stopping when a guard ran up, out of breath and wide eyed. “My Lady,” he said, trying to catch his breath.

Sansa frowned, “What is it?”

“His Grace, the King, he’s back.”

Sansa felt relief rush through her followed by a swift pang of disappointment. She’d been worried for Jon since he left, and had only received one raven from Dragonstone letting her know that they had arrived and were negotiating. At the same time, she had enjoyed being the Lady of Winterfell. She’d felt right and secure for the first time in years. This was what she’d always been meant to do. While she was happy Jon was back, a part of her cried out that it had been better while he was gone.

She brushed by the guard and headed for the courtyard, her strides determined as she pushed the feeling of bitterness down. The man followed at her heels. “My Lady, that’s not all…”

He didn’t need to finish. As Sansa arrived in the courtyard her steps slowed until she completely stopped. Jon’s party had clearly just arrived, including Ghost, who had been roaming around outside of Winterfell since Jon had left. He was just swinging off his horse, as were most of his men, but what stopped Sansa was the sight of the three dark haired, copper skinned men still sitting on their horses, looking around the courtyard with scowls on their face.

Jon handed his horse off to one of the men and said something to the men still mounted who reluctantly swung out of the saddles. He turned, saw Sansa, and smiled, starting towards her.

She forced her feet to move and pulled him into a fierce hug as they met, any bitterness or anger gone. “I was so worried about you.”

He chuckled and pulled back. “So was I for a while.” He glanced around then froze, shock rolling over his face. “Arya?”

Sansa turned and saw her sister standing next to Brienne, a huge grin on her own face.  “Jon!” she said, and sprinted towards him, practically launching herself into his arms. He caught her with a grunt, forced to take a step back to keep his balance. “Where the bloody hells have you been?” he asked, his voice choked with emotion.

Arya laughed and Jon set her back down, his hands still on her shoulders. “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” she said, seriously, her hand moving to the hilt of her sword.

Jon glanced at it, his eyes going wide. “You still have Needle?”

“Of course. You told me to be careful with it.”

Jon shook his head and hugged her again. He glanced at Sansa over Arya’s head, happiness and sadness mixing in his eyes. Sansa smiled, understanding, and stepped up to them. “Bran’s here as well, Jon. We’re all home.”

“Bran’s back?” He let go of Arya and took a step like he was going to run off looking for his brother.

Sansa grabbed his arm. “He’s been spending a lot of time in the Godswood. I’ll take you in a moment.” She glanced over his shoulder at the three men standing behind them, staring, all with their curved swords out and in hand. “Maybe we should find a place for our… guests first?”

Jon glanced back at them and his expression fell slightly. His lips thinned out in a frown and he turned back to the men. “You’ll want to look after your horses after the trip. I’ll have someone show you to the stables. I’m going to see my brother.”

One of the foreigners handed his reins to the man next to him, crossing his arms and just looking at Jon. Her brother shifted on his feet, taking a breath. “Alone.”

The man said something in a language that Sansa didn’t understand but eventually nodded and followed the other two towards the stable. “Who are they?”

Jon turned around, his face strained. “Dothraki.”

“Dothraki? So she agreed to help us? Did she send more than three men?”

Jon let out a long sigh. “Not yet. I’ll tell you everything after I see Bran.”

Sansa nodded and he hurried past her, Arya falling in beside him and Ghost trailing after. She cast another glance back at the three Dothraki and their horses before following her siblings.

Bran sat in his chair next to the Heart Tree, the place where he spent most of his time. Sansa thought that if he didn’t need to eat or sleep, he’d never leave. A heavy reluctance stole over her as she approached her brother. He unnerved her at every turn. She knew something profound had changed him, that he was no longer the brother she had known, but she didn’t understand. Everything about Bran now was a mystery. Even Arya had said how much he had changed, though she seemed to take the strangeness in stride. Sansa sighed. She couldn’t throw stones; they were all almost unrecognizable from when they had left.

Jon stopped in front of Bran, shooting a glance at Sansa and Arya. “Bran’s a warg?”

Sansa frowned and looked at her younger brother, noticing for the first time that his eyes were solid white. She felt a chill run down her spine. “He has visions now.”

Bran blinked and his eyes returned to their normal brown. Jon knelt in front of him, gripping one of his hands. “Bran, it’s good to see you. Sam told me you went beyond the Wall.”

“Jon,” he said calmly. “I need to talk to you.”

“We do. It’s been too long, little brother.”

“We need to talk about your mother.”

Sansa frowned, watching Jon stand and step back, his face going pale. “What do you mean? Father took that secret to his grave. It’s done.”

“I saw the day you were born. Father didn’t tell many truths about that day, the day Lyanna Stark died.”

Jon’s hands clenched, his entire body coiled like a spring.

“Lyanna had her brother take you away. She knew that if Robert found out, he would kill you.”

Sansa stepped forward. “Aunt Lyanna? What does Aunt Lyanna have to do with Jon’s mother?”

“She is Jon’s mother. Eddard is his uncle.”

Ghost whined, walking up to Jon and butting his head against his arm. Jon’s hand twisted in the direwolf’s white fur.  

“Who’s his father then? If you’re claiming it’s not Father? Which I hope you’re not,” Arya chimed in, not looking at all convinced.

“Lyanna’s husband, Rhaegar Targaryen.”

Sansa tried to process the information. “Husband? I thought she was—” she cut herself off, turning to look at Jon who’d lost what little color remained on his face. She started to say something, anything, to break the heavy silence that had fallen over them. Jon shook his head, half holding up a hand to stop her, then turned and walked away, Ghost padding silently after him.

Sansa watched him till he disappeared through the trees before turning back to her brother. “Are you sure, Bran? You have to be sure.”

“I saw it, Sansa.”

“Why did you have to tell him like that?” Arya snapped. “You couldn’t have thought of a better way to tell him?”

“He needed to know.”

“Why, Bran? He’s our _brother_! What does it matter who his parents are?”

Sansa sighed at her sister’s hotheadedness. Some things really didn’t change.  “Because he’s not a Stark or a Snow. He’s a Targaryen. He’s the rightful heir to the Iron Throne.”

Arya looked at her with a frown. “You know he doesn’t care about that.”

“Someone will. We cannot discuss this with _anyone_ else. You understand that, Bran? If our Bannermen find out… Or Littlefinger…”

“I needed to tell Jon.”

Sansa sighed. “Come on, Arya.”

“Sansa,” Bran called, and she stopped, looking back at him. “Tell Jon, the dead march on Eastwatch.”

Sansa felt a chill run over her but she forced herself to nod.

Arya cast one last look at her brother then walked away, obviously worried. “What are you going to do?” she asked as they walked.

Sansa shook her head. Despite whatever issues she and Jon had dealt with in the past, or even in the present, she loved him as her brother. They were all finally back together and she wasn’t about to let some long buried secret ruin anything. Jon was _good_ at leading his people. Sometimes he seemed too honorable for his own good, but that’s what she was there for. Arya and Bran had learned so many things while they were gone, but so had she. She hadn’t survived Joeffry and Cercei, and _Ramsey_ with nothing to show for it. She knew the dark, dirty side of people, what they were truly capable of doing, and it was her job to make sure that her family didn’t underestimate the devastation that could wreck on them.

Jon was her _brother_. He was King in the North, and she was the Lady of Winterfell. She wasn’t going to let _anything_ threaten that.

“We’re going to do nothing for now. This stays between us. I’m going to talk to Jon. Knowing him, he’ll do something stupid because he thinks it’s the right thing to do.”

“When you find him, tell him I didn’t travel all this way just so he could run off to brood right after he saw me.”

Sansa smiled sadly. “I’ll make sure he knows.”

She went back to the courtyard and found out from one of the guards that Jon had ridden out to the wildling camp with the three foreigners in tow. Sansa let out a long breath and went to get her own horse.

She found him easily enough on a knoll overlooking the makeshift camp that had been set up by some of the wildling families. The Dothraki sat on their horses a good distance away, watching her as she approached. Ghost trotted up and circled her then headed down the hill to sniff at something else. The direwolf reminded her painfully of Lady and she quickly pushed the memories away.

 She dismounted and walked over to stand beside him. She just waited, letting the silence role over them and the cold wind turn her cheeks red.

The silence stretched, and eventually Sansa fell into her own thoughts, possibilities of what their future held playing over and over in her mind. Even as Littlefinger’s presence turned her stomach and left her constantly watching her family’s back, his advice set her mind racing. Even the most despicable people could teach you something— _especially_ the most despicable people.

Jon sighed, pulling her out of her spiraling thoughts, and shook his head. “All my life,” he said with no preamble, as if she hadn’t been standing next to him for the better part of an hour, “I wanted one thing, and now I find out, that one thing was a lie. It _never_ could have been real. Father let me believe a lie for my whole life.”

“He did it to protect you, Jon. You have to realize that.”

“I do. It doesn’t make it easier.”

“This doesn’t change anything—”

Jon turned to her, his eyes full of pain. “It changes everything! Our Bannermen named me King in the North because they thought I had Stark blood running in my veins—”

“You _do_! Your mother was a Stark. And that’s not the only reason they chose you. You _know_ that. They saw something in _you_. If blood was all that mattered to them, they would have given Winterfell to _me_.”

He looked away, back out over the snow covered fields, shaking his head slightly. “It doesn’t matter. If I renounce my name now, if I tell people who I really am, the alliance is broken. The North will facture back apart and we will _all_ be lost. And Dany…” He looked down as his hands clenched and unclenched.

Sansa caught the diminutive name and a bell went off in her head. She frowned. “What is it? What _happened_ down there, Jon? There’s something else you’re not telling me.”

He glanced back at her. “She wanted the North. She wouldn’t help us and let us rule ourselves.”

“But you _did_ convince her. She wouldn’t have let you leave if you hadn’t.”

Emotion flickered across Jon’s face, a tightening of the eyes that Sansa couldn’t read. “We’re married,” he said with a smile that looked more like a grimace. She’d seen that look before, whenever he said something that he knew someone wouldn’t like. She didn’t know if that someone was supposed to be her, or him.

She took the information in, and all the implications that came with it. She forced herself to nod. “It was the smart thing to do. It strengthens our position, and secures us her forces—”

“She’s my aunt, Sansa,” Jon snapped vehemently, the anger that he had buried so deep exploding out in one burst.

She just nodded again, pushing down the wave of discomfort she felt at the outburst. “It’s done, Jon. You can’t change it.”

A bitter laugh escaped him and he shook his head. “You don’t understand—”

“ _I_ don’t understand?! Understand what? Having to do something you don’t like because it’s what you _have_ to do?”

Jon grimaced, turning towards her. “That’s not what I meant. I’m sorry.”

She gave a small nod, then stepped forward and pulled him into a tight embrace. “It wouldn’t bother you this much if you didn’t like her. There are worse things, Jon,” she said softly into the fur of his cloak.

“I know.” He let out a shuddering breath and she felt his shoulders slump slightly.  “Thank you, Sansa.”

She pulled back and smiled at him. “Come back. You still haven’t gotten a chance to talk to Arya. And we need to tell the lords about your alliance.”

He nodded, looking away. “I will.”

Sansa watched him for a long moment then turned and walked back to her horse. He’d return when he was ready. In the meantime, she had Bannermen to gather.

 

* * *

 

 

Sansa sat at the long table, casting a sideways glance at the empty seat next to her, her fingers tapping a nervous pattern on the wood. Jon still wasn’t back.

“My Lady,” Lord Manderly said, standing and allowing the mumbling to die down. “I believe you called us here for a reason. We all have preparations to make…” He trailed off, his impatience blatantly evident.

Sansa steeled herself and stood. “I have, my lords. The King has returned with news—”

“And where is His Grace?” Manderly asked.

“I’m here.” Jon appeared at the back of the hall, Ghost by his side and the three Dothraki behind him. Muttering erupted at the sight of the foreigners, but Jon ignored it as he strode to the front of the hall, a determined look on his face.

“Welcome, Your Grace,” Lady Mormont said, her voice ringing out over the cacophony of voices. “It appears your journey was successful.”

“It was,” Jon said and paused, as if bracing himself. “Daenerys Targaryen has agreed to help us in the war against the Night’s King. She’s pledged us her armies, her resources… and her dragons.” There were more mutterings at that but Jon pressed on. “I’ve seen them myself, my lords. They are just as fearsome as the legends would have us believe.”

“And what did this Dragon Queen want in return?” someone asked.

“The North,” he said simply, ignoring the shouts as he continued. “That is something that I could not give. Instead, we agreed upon an alliance through marriage.”

The hall erupted, several men rising to their feet. Sansa tensed, her hands clenching under the table, and she saw the Dothraki shift their weight, their stances loosening in preparation for a fight.

“We had no other options, my lords!” Jon shouted over the ruckus, his voice cutting through the noise like a whip. “Even if we could defeat the army of the dead on our own, those left alive would just be forced into another war with the South. Another war that we _cannot_ win. The North would be wiped away, by ice or fire, it would not matter to our corpses.” The men had quieted and Jon looked around the room, waiting for more arguments. “I will remain King in the North. You will not be subjugated to a southern ruler, not while I live.”

Sansa held her breath, waiting. The lords talking loudly amongst themselves. One closer to the front said, “Jon Snow, King in the North and Dragon Tamer.” There was a ripple of laughter that quickly died when Jon shot them a dark look.

Lady Mormont stood. “If this alliance has secured us the weapons we need to defend ourselves through the Long Night, so be it. Our King has done what his brother could not, unite the North and the South and secured our freedom.”

Someone in the back yelled, “The King in the North!” There was a hearty echo around the room, and Sansa breathed again as the men started to sit back down slowly.

Jon waited a long moment as the hall fell back into relative quiet. “We were able to mine enough dragonglass to distribute weapons to all the northern Houses,” he continued. “They will be standard issue to anyone that will be in the field. Everyone must be prepared.” There was a murmur of consent. “Daenerys is securing the Iron Throne and eliminating our enemies in the south. She will rally the southern Houses to march north once that is accomplished.” He glanced back at Sansa and she tensed, knowing she wasn’t going to like whatever was coming next. “However, providing proof that the threat to the north is real will aid her in that endeavor. I will take a party to Eastwatch to catch a wight and deliever it to the capitol.”

There was some grumbling but no one protested. Jon nodded. “That is all, my lords.” He turned and walked back around the table, sitting down next to Sansa.

“Why do you need to go yourself?” she asked in a low voice as the hall started to disperse. “Bran said the dead were marching to Eastwatch! Anyone else could do this job. You’re too important now.”

“If they run into a White Walker…” he shook his head. “I have a valyrian steel sword. I can fight them. I won’t send someone else to do what I can do myself.” He met her gaze. “We just need to find one wight. That’s all. Until Daenerys can bring her dragons, fighting the army of the dead is a fool’s errand.”

“When will you leave?” she asked reluctantly.

“In the morning. We’ve already wasted too much time.”

“I’m coming with you,” Arya said, appearing next to them. Sansa blinked, having not even realized she’d been in the hall.

Jon frowned. “This isn’t a picnic—”

“She can take care of herself,” Sansa said. “Trust me.”

Arya shot her a look of appreciation. “She’s right. I can help. I’m coming with you whether you let me or not.”

Jon’s expression darkened. “I know you can. You made it back all on your own. But you can’t come.”

Arya’s eyes narrowed. “You may be my older brother and the King in the North and possibly of all the Seven Kingdoms, but this isn’t your decision to make.”

Jon visibly flinched, and went quiet, looking for a response.

“Arya,” Sansa started to say, trying to mitigate the situation.

“You know I’m right,” her younger sister said calmly.

“I can’t protect you!” Jon almost yelled, his voice barely low enough to not be heard beyond the table as the last of the lords left the hall. “You have no idea how dangerous this is going to be. I don’t presume to know what you’ve been through, but you haven’t faced the dead, or the White Walkers, or the _Night’s King_. Poking them full of holes with Needle will not stop them.”

Arya’s hand flashed out, and before Sansa could blink, her new Valyrian steel dagger was pointed at Jon’s heart. The Dothraki were moving the next second and Jon jolted to his feet, his hand going unconsciously to Longclaw’s hilt, as he ordered them to stop. But none of them were quicker than Ghost who launched to his feet and planted himself firmly between the Stark children and the Dothraki, his growl echoing off the stone walls, and freezing them in their tracks.

“Will this work?” Arya asked, looking back at Jon, her eyes calm but lit with an intensity. She spun the dagger in her hand to hold it out to him hilt first.

He let out a long breath, letting go of his sword. “Ghost,” he called, and the huge direwolf slowly sat, his red eyes still fixed on the Dothraki as they sheathed their weapons. He looked down at the blade, and took it carefully, his thumb running over the dragonbone handle. “Do I even want to ask where you got this from?”

“Littlefinger gave it to Bran who gave it to me. You told Sansa that Valyrian steel kills White Walkers. You can’t order every woman and child in the North to take up arms and then tell me I can’t fight. I’m coming with you.” She glanced over at the Dothraki. “Your guards are too slow, anyway. Someone needs to watch your back.”

Jon let out a heavy sigh and handed the dagger back to her. Sansa recognized the sound of defeat. “We’re leaving in the morning. Early.”

Arya smiled. “Good. We’ll have time to catch up on the road.”

Sansa sat back in her chair and forced herself to smile even as she felt her heart nearly freeze with fear and worry.  


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the pace of this fic is ridiculous cause I'm trying to keep it ahead of the show since I'm paralleling the plot somewhat. So I apologize for the super fast pace and skipped scenes. 
> 
> Also, I have not seen the leaked episode so this is spoiler free besides the officially released stuff for episode 6. 
> 
> Thanks again for all the kind words, kudos, and bookmarks!!

Jon _ran_.

His breath hitched in his lungs till his chest was screaming with pain, and his calves felt like they were being stabbed. He knew if he slowed down, they might be.

The dead swarmed into the huge fissure in the wall. The sound of their creaking tendons and ruined vocal chords echoed off the cracked stone, bouncing back on itself till it nearly drowned out all other noise except the gasps of Jon’s own labored breathing and the thud of his heart in his ears.

He’d sent Arya back at the first real sign of trouble when the ground had started to shake, to warn the remaining guard at Eastwatch that something was coming. He prayed to the Old Gods and the New that she’d made it past the Wall before it split open.

They burst out of the shadow of the stone and ice into the muted winter light and one of the men from the Brotherhood that had been running in front of him slowed, causing Jon to almost run him over. He caught himself with a curse and looked ahead, his hammering heart sinking in his chest.

“We won’t make it!” Tormund yelled, grabbing his arm as he started running parallel to the wall, towards a rocky outcrop. Jon tore his eyes away from the new swell of dead that had emerged from another break in the wall and poured over the open plain between them and Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. He sprinted after Tormund towards the rocky rise, hoping it would be enough cover to put up a defense, but knowing that it wouldn’t be.

Jon reached the outcrop and scrambled up, Tormund grabbing him by the collar and yanking him the last few feet. He stood straight and turned, watching the dead surge towards them. Off in the distance he saw several figures standing alone, the corpses swirling out around them, and he felt his heart stutter in his chest, recognizing the Night King.

 “We can’t stay here,” Jon yelled behind him at the others, all back to back, waiting for the on slaughter.

“Where do you propose we go?” Jorah yelled back grimly. Daenerys had sent the man to meet them at Eastwatch, though Jon knew now that one more man wasn’t going to help anything.

He had no answer so he remained silent and watched the swell of dead ebb closer.

A roar tore the air around them and Jon’s eyes shot to the sky, his breath catching in his throat.

“What in fucking hells is that?” Tormund asked, chopping down a wight as it crawled up the rocks.  

The dragon dropped out of the low clouds over the water, banking in a sharp sweep to run past the half destroyed Eastwatch and the cracked Wall, before turning to arc over the army of the dead.

Jon heard another scream, this one freezing his blood and ringing his ears till he thought they would explode. He saw one of the Night King’s lieutenants step forward, swinging his ice spear around in his hand until he held it like a spear.

Jon’s fingers went numb with fear. “Daenerys!” he screamed, knowing that she wouldn’t hear him, but unable to stand and do nothing.

The White Walker threw his weapon but at the last second, Drogon banked, opened his mouth, and unleashed fire.

The ground exploded, spraying dead men and earth in every direction and leaving mist, ash, and flames in its wake. The panicked terror Jon felt faded to awe as he watched the dragon lay waste to the dead swarming between them and the relative safety of their distant ship. The dragonfire was devastating to whatever it touched, burning frozen snow and men away to dirt and ash.

“Let’s go!” He jumped down from the embankment, cutting down a wight that lunged at him as the few men left followed him down. The dragon made another pass, widening the flaming path, the burning corpses helping to keep back the swarming, chaotic mass of dead.

The men ran, hacking and slashing at the wights that crossed their path, trying to keep their speed up.

Drogon screamed behind them and Jon looked back in time to see the dragon bank sharply in a turn, his wings perpendicular to the ground as he twisted in the air. Fear spiked in Jon’s chest again, knowing something had just gone horribly wrong, as he slowed and eventually stopped running.  Tormund saw him and ran back. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Jon barely heard him as he watched the dragon dip lower in the air, one of his wings moving oddly, before he hit the ground with one foot. Daenerys wavered on his back and as the dragon pushed himself back into the sky, she fell, the moment seeming to suspend before she slammed into the ground.

Jon ripped his arm free from Tormund’s grasp, turning to his wildling companion. “Get everyone to the ship. Go! We’ll be right behind you.”

Tormund’s eyes were wild and angry. “You won’t make it back. Is the dragon queen worth dying over? Again?”

Jon scowled and in response turned and ran. He dodged a wight and forced his legs to move faster. He saw her body move on the ground and he felt something that had coiled inside of him loosen slightly.

He didn’t see the blow coming until it was too late. The ice spear swung in front on him, chest height, giving him a microsecond to try to twist out of the way. His only thought was a flash of Ygritte, how she had died, staring at _him_ , unaware of the danger behind her until there was an arrow through her heart.

The blunt side of the spear hit him in the chest and shoulder and he flew back, hitting the ground with a wet thud, his head snapping back into the snow covered stone. He opened his mouth but couldn’t even try to draw a breath, his diaphragm spasming as every bit of air was knocked from his lungs. He clawed his way to his hands and knees, running on pure adrenaline, trying to get his lungs to work and failing.

As he got to his feet he managed a short gasp but knew it was already too late. Even as he lifted his sword to block the next blow, it was too slow. The White Walker batted it aside and the ice blade slide into Jon’s side. He screamed, paralyzed by the cold more than the pain.

The monster pulled the spear back and Jon dropped to one knee, hand scrabbling for his dagger as he struggled to bring his sword up again. The White walker drew back his weapon for the final blow and Jon forced himself to keep his eyes open, the memory of the darkness waiting for him stealing what little breath he had.

Fire exploded over his head, so hot he fell back to the ground, shielding his face, the snow on his coat hissing to steam. The White Walker made a noise that nearly shattered his eardrums and he scrambled away as it thrashed and burned until his back hit something warm and solid. He looked up, gasping in hot air, to see Drogon’s huge head dip lower, blotting out the gray sky.

Jon forced himself to his feet, his side screaming with pain, and turned, looking around wildly for Daenerys. He saw her under Drogon’s wing, struggling to push herself up on her elbows, her eyes wide. He stumbled his way to her side, falling to his knees. 

Dany grabbed his shoulder, her expression dazed even as she looked him over. “You’re hurt.”

Jon shook his head. “We have to go, now!” The dragon’s tail was flashing out, flame swirling around them, keeping the wights at bay for the time being. There were so many, Jon didn’t know how long that would last.

“Drogon,” Dany said, struggling to get up and mostly failing.

“You’re in no condition to ride.”

“Both of us. I’m not leaving you.”

Jon looked up at the raging dragon and didn’t let himself think about it. He grabbed her arm, and together, they struggled to their feet. Dany tried to take a step and one leg buckled underneath her. Jon caught her and held her upright.

Jon sucked breath through gritted teeth, trying to ignore the burning in his side as the two of them half ran, half limped over to Drogon’s shoulder. Dany wasted no time grabbing hold of his scales and hoisting herself onto the dragon’s back, doing her best to avoid using her injured leg. Jon hesitated for barely a moment before he sheathed Longclaw and followed her lead. He crawled up the writhing flesh and bone to settle in behind her, his heart nearly beating out of his chest as he wrapped his arms around her waist, as much to support himself as to support her. He saw the ugly gash running along top of Drogon’s wing and hoped the dragon could still even fly.

Daenerys laid a hand against the dragon’s scaly neck and Drogon roared, lurching underneath them as his wings flexed and legs bunched. They launched into the air a moment later and Dany shifted unstably in his grasp. He pulled her closer, scrambling for purchase with his other hand on one of the dragon’s spines as his stomach flipped at the odd sensation.

Jon looked down and felt the breath leave his body again. Awe and despair stole over him as the sheer number of dead spread across the scarred, icy plain hit him full force. Drogon circled higher and Jon looked toward the shore, seeing his small band still fighting towards the boat.

“We have to help them!” he yelled over the sound of the wind whipping by them. Daenerys nodded, but Jon could tell they needed to land soon. Her grip on his arm was slipping.

He didn’t know what she did, but the dragon banked for the ocean, it’s wings tucking as they dropped in the sky, almost falling through the air. Just as he thought they were going to smash into the ground, the wings snapped out, slowing them and a gout of fire turned the ground behind the fleeing men into a blaze. The dragon dipped again and turned, flying down the beach and landing hard, rocks flying out of the way as they skidded to a stop near the waiting row boat.

Jon scrambled off Drogon’s back, helping Dany down, and ignoring the pang of loss as his feet hit the ground. Even as his mind screamed about the danger they were still in, another part of him wished that he’d been able to stay in the air forever, to actually enjoy the incredible gift he’d just been given.

The sound of boots crunching stone tore him back to the present as Tormund and the others ran up, giving the dragon a wide berth.

“Get in the damn boat!” Tormund yelled, sprinting past him and Jon didn’t waste any more time. Jorah was there a moment later, putting Daenerys’ other arm around his neck, taking some of her weight off Jon. Jon didn’t have the strength to protest.

Drogon roared and took to the air again, circling above them in small loops, as they climbed into the boat with the few others and pushed off.

The boat was quiet, except for the smack of the oars on the cold water and a few of the wildlings cursing under their breath. Daenerys stared back at the shore, her eyes wide and haunted as she watched the dead slowly make their way around the remaining flames. “It’s all true.”

Jon looked at her, at the shock and horror on her face, and knew exactly how she felt. Hearing about the horrors that were marching on them was one thing, seeing them with your own eyes, en masse, something else entirely.  He tore his gaze away, looking back at the two wildlings rowing. “Did the men from the castle get out?” he asked, trying to keep his voice calm as he sat down heavily on one of the seats, his mind full of worry for Arya, Davos, and everyone else.

“Aye,” one of them said, pulling hard against the water. “That little fucking spitfire came in and practically cleared the castle herself. They’re waiting on the big boat.”

Jon physically slumped and someone grabbed his shoulder. Tormund said something, but Jon barely heard it, the pain and loss of blood finally catching up to him. Hands pushed at the furs of his coat and he grit his teeth as he felt it pull at the sticky, clotted blood, breaking the wound open even further.

“You’re harder to kill than this, Jon Snow,” Tormund said, but some of his normal jovialness seemed forced. “We’ll get you patched up.”

Dany knelt in front of him, her eyes wide with a mix of emotions that Jon didn’t have the focus to decipher.  “I’ve taken worse than this. I’ll be fine,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Her brow furrowed. “I’ve heard that before. You don’t know that.”

Jon’s laugh turned into a grimace. “Some queen said I wasn’t allowed to die. Can’t go disappointing her now, can I?”

“No, you cannot.”

Jon tried to push himself up straighter but his vision narrowed alarmingly and then went black.

 

* * *

 

 

Dany stood on the deck of the ship, looking back toward the disappearing shore, fear and worry vying for top emotion. Her head was pounding from the fall she’d taken and one of the men had wrapped the ankle that she had badly twisted, enough that she could walk, if barely.

Booted feet sounded on the deck behind her and Jorah stepped up next to her, his solid presence a small comfort in a world that had been completely turned on its head. “Are you well, my Queen?” he asked in a low voice.

Dany didn’t look at him, couldn’t. “No,” she said, her voice barely audible.

Jorah shifted slightly, turning towards her. He was silent for a long moment before continuing. “They say he’ll recover. A bad wound but one that will not take his life. Though how these wildlings talk about him, you’d think nothing could kill him.”

Memories of deep, red scars flashed across Dany’s memory and she drew a deep breath. She looked over at Jorah, his expression grim. “I’m glad you survived, my friend.”

Jorah gave her a slight bow. She wanted to say more but she couldn’t, too many emotions battling inside of her. Jorah’s smile was sad. “Go, Khaleesi.”

She nodded and turned away, making her way across the ice crusted deck for the hatch to the lower level of the ship, the dark swallowing her up as she descended the ladder.

Davos was pacing outside the cabin but stopped when he saw her. “Your Grace.”

“How is he?”

“Asleep, I hope. He should be fine with a bit of rest, though knowing him, he won’t even let himself get that.”

Dany stepped past him and pulled the door open, shutting it behind her slowly as she let her eyes adjust to the dim light. Jon was asleep on a narrow cot built into the hull of the ship, his face pale even in the low light, contrasting sharply with his dark hair. She walked across the room and sat gingerly next to him. She laid her hand on his chest, feeling it rise and fall, and her own breathing picked up as she realized just how close she’d come to losing him, to losing everything. She let her head drop onto his warm chest and just listened to his heartbeat as she tried to slow her own racing heart.

“You’re Daenerys Targaryen,” a voice said behind her and she jumped to her feet, horrified and furious that someone had seen her in such a compromised situation.

A slight figure was standing in the corner unmoving, arms crossed, waiting for her to respond.

Dany drew herself up straighter, hiding her uneasiness. “I am. Who are you?”

“His sister, Arya Stark.”

Dany relaxed slightly, the anger draining out of her somewhat. “I wish we could have met under better circumstances—”

“He came up here for you, you know,” Arya interrupted, stepping out of the dark corner and into the candlelight. Her expression was dark, the candlelight glinting off the weapons on her belt. Suddenly Dany didn’t feel as comfortable. “He rallied all the norther Houses to his cause, but _you_ had to have proof.”

Dany frowned, bristling at the girl’s tone even as she knew she spoke the truth. Dany had been thinking the same since they’d gotten on the ship. “Jon knew the risks.”

Arya glanced at her brother. “Yes, he did.” She looked back at Dany, her face hardening. “You forced him to marry you, and then you sent him to almost certain death. Jon deserves better than that.”

Rage flashed through Daenerys, white hot. “Perhaps he does,” she said, taking a step towards the girl. “But you and I both know now what we face. What we deserve, what we want, doesn’t matter anymore. All that matters is that we defeat it, and the only way to do that is to work together. Your brother understands that. So should you.”

Arya’s head cocked to the side slightly, her gaze narrowing. “Why did you come to help? Was it your alliance? Or do you really care about him?”

“Arya, enough,” Jon said, his voice cracking slightly. Dany spun around to find him awake, pushing himself up slowly against the wall. He looked over at his sister, his expression reproving. “Leave us be for a bit.”

Arya shot a look at Daenerys but nodded. “I’ll be outside if you need me,” she said and left, shutting the door firmly behind her.

Jon sighed, running a hand over his face. “She can be a bit protective,” he said, looking up at her. “How are you feeling?”

“Better than you,” she replied, sitting next to him again.

“Did we get it?” he asked.

Dany nodded. The first group back had gotten the wight on board. She’d gone to see it after her ankle had been tend to. She shuddered slightly at the memory of its decayed face and single, milky white blue eye. If it didn’t convince the South that the dead were real, she didn’t know what would.

Jon slumped back and closed his eyes. “At least it wasn’t for nothing.”

Dany couldn’t help herself. She reached out, running a light thumb over his cheek. His eyes opened and he looked up at her, questioningly. She leaned down and kissed him lightly. For a brief moment, he returned it, then pulled back abruptly, his hand catching hers.

“Wait,” he said, his voice low and full of uncertainty.

Dany froze, frowning. “What is it?”

His eyes searched her face, uncertainty turning to something she couldn’t identify. “Why _did_ you come?”

She sat back and looked away, debating if she should tell him the truth, and finally deciding that she had to. She knew he’d be able to spot a lie. “When I left for the Wall, it was because I knew I needed you alive. I couldn’t stop thinking about what would happen if you were to die. The North would be lost, fractured, and if the tales you told were true, destroyed.” She looked up at him, at the grim expression on his pale face. “But when I saw you on that hill, my first thought wasn’t of any alliance, or any plot.” She met his eyes, willing him to see the truth in her words. “It was just of you, Jon Snow. How I would never truly have a chance to know you if you died.”

His gaze softened even as it turned sad and conflicted. He looked down at where his hand still held hers, running his thumb absently over her knuckles. “Gods, our luck is shit.”

Dany laughed shortly at the small outburst. “Not that bad. We’re still alive.”

He looked up at her then, and she saw something shift in his eyes, a fierce determination lighting inside of them. He reached up and pulled her into him, his lips claiming hers in a kiss that was full of desperation and need and maybe even anger.

She felt her body respond as memories rushed over her and she settled against him, her free hand moving to his chest.

He gasped suddenly, sucking air through his teeth, and she pulled back with a wince. “I’m sorry.”

Jon shook his head and let out a loud sigh, his hand still twisted in the material of her dress, seemingly unwilling to let her go as he worked through the pain. “I’m alright,” he said after a long moment.

Dany sat back. “You should rest,” she said and started to stand.

Jon’s hand tightened, holding her on the cot. “Stay.”

She met his gaze, perfectly understanding the need in his eyes, a need for the touch of the living, a way to hold at bay the memory of the dead. She nodded, and as he laid back down curled up next to his side, careful this time to avoid his injuries. She watched as he fell back into a fitful sleep, intending to leave once he had, but fatigue and her own pounding head pulled at her. She soon followed him only to be haunted by dreams of pale blue, dead eyes.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the spirit of having something or someone swoop in to save Jon...

Jon stood on the bow of the ship, watching as spires of the Red Keep started to come into view. He shifted his weight with a small wince, wishing not for the first time that the wound in his side would heal faster.

A raven had arrived at Dragonstone while they had been gone. The blockade of King’s Landing had finally forced Cersei’s hand and she had called for a meeting to ‘discuss the plan moving forward.’ All of them were skeptical, Tyrion most of all, who had told them the news when they’d arrived.

“It’s a trap, that’s a guarantee, but we can’t afford to refuse her, not if we don’t want thousands more to die,” the Queen’s Hand had said grimly as they discussed the matter in the map room. He turned to look at Dany. “You cannot go.”

Her eyes iced over. “I thought the entire point of the meeting was for your sister and I to _meet_. Or am I mistaken?”

“It’s entirely too dangerous. We cannot underestimate what she might do when backed into a corner. She destroyed the entire Sept of Balor. Who knows what she would do to see the end of you.”

“Then what do you propose we do? How am I to negotiate if I’m not there?”

Tyrion sighed. “I would volunteer to lead the delegation, but I have a feeling my sister will be less than inclined to listen to me.” He looked over at Jon. “Cersei is a Queen. I think a King would serve as an appropriate representative.”

Jon sat up straighter in the chair he had fallen into. “I’m just the King in the North, that was the agreement.”

Tyrion gave a small shrug. “Cersei doesn’t need to know that. The semantics can be worked out later.”

Jon shook his head slightly, uncomfortable with the implications, uncomfortable with what he still hadn’t told Daenerys. “I’ll go and talk to her, but I’ll go as what I am, not a lie. That’s not a path I want to start down.”

Tyrion had glanced at Dany and she had just nodded so he’d let it go.

Now Jon stood on a ship sailing into Blackwater Bay, not really know what to expect from the meeting besides treachery and lies.

They sailed through the opposing Greyjoy fleet, the huge flag ship passing close off their port side, close enough to see the faces of the men on the deck. When they finally pulled into the port, the Queen’s Guard was there to meet them, their armor cool black and silver, a sharp contrast to the scarlet and gold of the Lannister soldiers lined up next to them.

“I’ll hand it to my sister, she certainly knows how to prepare a welcome party,” Tyrion quipped grimly as the stepped off the ship.  

Jon barely kept his hands off his sword hilt, looking around uncomfortably at the array of armed men. “This was a damn stupid idea,” he muttered.

“Probably,” Tyrion replied back. “Just remember that the city is completely surrounded and if Cersei does decide to murder us where we stand, she’ll follow close behind.”

“That still won’t help _us_ very much, will it?”

A man stepped forward, a haughty litheness to his step as he stopped in front of Tyrion. “I can’t believe you dumb cunts actually came.” The man shook his head. “Though I guess I prefer this to you roasting us in our beds.”

“Good to see you too, Bronn,” Tyrion said, stepping up next to the man as he turned to lead them through the surrounding guards.

Jon glanced back at Davos and Missandei, frowning slightly when he realized Arya was nowhere to be seen. He was slowly learning what she was actually capable of but he still worried about her. She’d snuck aboard the ship despite his orders when they’d left Dragonstone and now she was gone again.

The Queen’s Guard fell in around them, pressing in slightly and Jon’s shoulders tensed, not at all liking how the situation was playing out. His hand fell on Longclaw’s hilt unconsciously and he forced himself to follow Tyrion and the sellsword.

They were led through the streets, a relatively quiet and tense crowd watching as they went until they came into sight of a massive, half destroyed structure perched on a slow rolling hill in the heart of the city. The massive entrance was lined with Lannister soldiers, and as their group emerged onto the floor of the Dragonpits, Jon saw that three simple pavilions had been erected, two facing each other and the third in between, slightly elevated above the others.

There was no sign of the Lannisters so Jon looked around as they approached the meeting area, slightly surprised to see Brienne of Tarth and Podrick with a few Stark men. He met her eye and she approached, bowing slightly.

“Your Grace, Lady Sansa sent me. We received a raven requesting a Northern representative at this meeting. We didn’t know if you’d received word…”

Jon nodded. “How is my sister?” he asked quietly.

“As well as can be expected, Your Grace. Littlefinger cannot be trusted, but she knows that.” Brienne fell quiet, glancing around for a quick moment. “Is Lady Arya in good health?”

Jon’s hands clenched, but he fought down any other outward sign of his frustration. “She was. She disappeared when we landed. Keep your eyes open.”

“Always, Your Grace.”

Jon nodded and turned back to the raised awning. Most everyone had moved to their respective sides. Tyrion and Missandei on one, Brienne and the Stark men on the other with Davos hovering somewhere in the middle looking at him. He motioned him over toward the Northerners and Davos stepped back, a grim expression on his face. Jon remained in the middle and took a deep breath as he spotted movement behind the chairs as more Lannister soldiers emerged from the stairs that descended into the pit floor. Black and silver Queen’s Guard came next, positioning on either side of the empty platform.

Cersei emerged into the sunlight, her gaze cold and collected as she took in those gathered, waiting on her arrival, with Jaime Lannister by her side.

Jon took a long, deep breath, taking in the woman that had wrecked such havoc and destruction on his family, not exactly surprised by the rush of anger and hatred he felt. He glanced over at her brother to find the man staring at him, a look of wary curiosity on his face. Jon had no good memories of the Kingslayer either. He swallowed down his feelings and steeled himself. He was there to negotiate, not extract revenge for past wrongs. Not yet.

“Cersei of the House Lannister, First of Her Name, the One _True_ Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, welcomes you to King’s Landing,” a man in Maester robes announced from the side of the platform. The Lannister party sat and waited.

Tyrion stepped forward, shooting Jon a quick glance. “I’m glad you agreed to meet with us, dear sister.” Cersei’s scowl was all the response he got. “This is Jon Snow, the King in the North. We will be speaking for Queen Daenerys.”

Cersei looked around the pits pointedly. “And where is this pretender Queen?” she asked, her eyes narrowing as she looked back at them.

“We thought it best to see what type of welcome awaited us,” Jon said as levelly as he could. “You do have a bit of a reputation.”

A smirk appeared on her face. “So she sent a murderous imp and the bastard son of a traitor to treat with us. I feel like I should be insulted.”

“You should be grateful you’re not a pile of ash,” Tyrion snapped. “You’re outnumbered, out maneuvered. No one wants to see more death.”

“You always did underestimate me,” Cersei said coolly, her hands clenching on the arms of her chair.

“No more men have to die,” Jon said, stepping forward. “None of us can afford needless deaths. There’s only one war that matters, and it is here. Not amongst ourselves, but with the enemy to the north, the enemy of all the living. Surrender and fight with us.”

Cersei tore her eyes off her younger brother and looked at him. “You’re a bastard and a traitor. You broke your sworn vows, abandoned your duty. Why would I entertain a word that you say? Your head belongs on a spike next to your dead father and brother.”

Jon grit his teeth and ignored the insults, having heard them all a thousand times before. He looked back at where Jorah stood with some of the Dothraki, the wooden crate with the wight sitting between them. He motioned them forward and the men carried the crate to the center of the raised platform, Jorah grabbing a knife and prying at the nails holding the boards together.

“I know you’ve heard the rumors. I can’t blame you for not believing them. It sounds like the tales of madmen,” Jon said, and the side of the crate crashed to the ground. The thing inside screamed as the sun hit it and the guards around the Lannisters dropped their pikes and drew their swords, everyone going on high alert at the ear splitting sound. “But it’s all true.” Jon stepped back and let the wight crawl from the crate, still hindered by the ropes binding it but able to move enough.

Cersei and Jaime got to their feet as they watched the monster writhe across the ground, it’s dead flesh barely covering its skull, one eye missing, the other a startling blue. “You’ve made your point. Take it away,” she said in a clipped voice.

Jorah and the Dothraki grabbed the wight, ignoring it’s screeching and got it back inside the crate, moving it back out of the way.

“What was that thing?” Jaime asked, looking shaken.

“A soldier in the army of the dead. Hundreds of thousands of them march past the Wall as we speak.”

Jaime’s face twisted. “ _Past_ the Wall? Did the Night’s Watch open the gates and abandon their duty along with you?”

Jon let out a short breath. “The Wall has fallen at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea.”

“You’d have us believe that _the Wall_ has come down? After thousands of years?” Cersei scoffed.  “This is ridiculous.”

“You saw the dead man walking,” Jaime remarked, turning towards her.

Her expression hardened. “One abomination does not support their claims. I’ve seen Qyburn perform equally impressive feats.”

“It would help if you believed the truth, but it’s not necessary,” Tyrion added, stepping forward. “Your city is still surrounded. We still have three dragons ready to attack at a moment’s notice. For once, do the smart thing and admit you’ve lost.”

The smile that stole over Cersei’s face made Jon twitch. “Lost? I think that depends on your definition.” The smile twisted into a sneer of contempt and she sat back down. “I’ll surrender, but under my own conditions.”

Jon tensed, “And what are those?”

“You will return Casterly Rock to Lannister control. You will surrender your murderous whore of a sister to my justice,” she looked at Tyrion, her eyes blazing, “as well as my imp of a sibling. Once these terms are met I will order my men to stand down from the defense of King’s Landing.”

Jon’s hands clenched as he fought to control the flash of rage that ran through him. “You know we’ll never accept those terms.”

“Then we appear to be at an impasse.”

“We’re here to negotiate—” Tyrion started to say.

“No, you came to make demands. I’ve made my own and you’ve refused.”

“Cersei,” Jaime said in a low voice. “Why don’t we hear what they have to offer?”

“I already know. I will not live out my days as a prisoner.” She turned and glared at Jon. “Were you really stupid enough to think no one would hear of your happy nuptials?” He felt his heart stutter, a slow dread rolling through him. “My little birds hear whispers even on Dragonstone. Do you think the North will fight for a Targaryen once they find out that she sent their king into such harm but refused to come herself?” Jaime tried to say something but she talked over him. “You will remain in King’s Landing as my guests. If any of the foreign invaders attack, I will kill you, one by one. If they continue to attack, I will level this city and everyone in it. If Daenerys Targaryen truly wants peace, she can come and negotiate for it herself.” Cersei made a motion with her hand and the soldiers dropped into fighting position, pikes dropping level.

Jon had Longclaw out a second later, his heart racing, watching as the guards advanced slowly. Tyrion fell back next to him, his face pale, as a huge shadow blotted out the sun. Jon’s eyes shot skyward and he felt the now somewhat familiar stab of fear and awe as a dragon shot over the pits. He looked back at the Lannisters and saw the queen dispatch the maester, the man hurrying back down the stairs into the ground.

Jon took a step forward as if to follow, knowing he wouldn’t be able to but driven forward by the feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach. He took another step, his grip tightening on his sword when the dragon suddenly dropped in front of him, its roar stealing his breath. He looked up for Dany and was stunned to realize it was not her dragon. This one was green with hints of bronze and yellow that glinted in the sun, and no rider on its back.

The dragon, Rhaegal, Jon guessed, turned and screamed again at the Lannister soldiers, most of them stopping or falling back at the fearsome sight. Cersei was on her feet, and Jaime ran down the steps, yelling for the men to stand down. The dragon let out a gout of flame and Jon sprang forward, not knowing what he was going to do, but knowing that he had to try and diffuse the situation before everyone ended up dead.

As he stepped up next to the beast it spun, snapping its huge jaws inches from his face, hot air blowing him a step back. He gasped, trying to keep his composure as he sheathed Longclaw with a shaking hand. He had no idea where Daenerys was. At no point had they discussed sending in one of the dragons without her. Jon raised his hands slightly, trying to be as nonthreatening as possible. He caught site of Jaime standing in front of his men, watching, a look of awed horror on his face.

Just as he was about to touch the dragon, the sound of slitting wood echoed through the pits. Jon spun around and Rhaegal screamed, his tail thrashing out, barely missing Davos and Tyrion as they scrambled farther away. Jon looked up at the crumbing walls and saw the wood housings fall away from the array of giant ballistae staged around the enclosure, all swinging to train on the dragon in their midst.

Jon ran the few steps to the dragon and hit it hard. “Fly! Go!” he screamed, unable to stop the panic in his voice. Rhaegal twisted around him, almost knocking him to the ground. He felt the ground shake and screams rippled through the arena. He looked up and caught his breath as the two remaining dragons circled past, each destroying a line of ballistae with blasts of fire as they passed.

He stepped away from the dragon toward Cersei where she still stood on her platform, anger painted across her face. Rhaegal screamed next to him, causing the air to ripple with heat between them. “Tell your men to stand down,” Jon said, looking from her to the Lannister men.

Cersei shook her head slightly. “Kill him,” she said in a low voice.

Jon turned to look at Jaime who didn’t move, just looked between Jon and the dragon above him. The man swore and turned to his sister. “We can’t win this,” he said in a firm voice.

She glared at him, a wildness appearing in her face. “Do as I command or die with them.”

Jaime swallowed and took a step towards her, shaking his head. “Cersei, don’t do this.”

Dany and Drogon landed on the far side of the dragonpits and Cersei turned and disappeared down the stairs. Jaime took a step after her then stopped and turned back towards them, sheathing his sword and yelling for the remaining soldiers that hadn’t left with the queen to lay down their arms.

Jon watched him warily, his heart still pounding as Dany dismounted and approached, the Dothraki in the arena falling in around her. She kept a wide berth from Rhaegal as she approached, glancing from the dragon to Jon and finally to Jaime who hadn’t moved since ordering his men to stand down. “Where is your sister?” she asked him coldly.

Jaime straightened and didn’t reply, his face blank.

Dany’s lips thinned in displeasure and she turned to Jon. “Are you alright?”

Jon glanced at the green dragon crouched at his back and watching him like a hawk. “I am. Did you send him?”

“No, he came on his own.” She looked back at Jaime. “You will tell the city watch to stand down. That your queen has fled.”

“If you think Cersei is running away, you’re in for a sore surprise.”

Tyrion hurried up to them, keeping his distance from the dragon. “We need to leave.”

Dany glanced at him with a frown. “Why?”

A moment later the sound of an explosion sounded in the distance and a few seconds after that the ground trembled. Jon’s gaze shot to the Kingslayer. “What is that?’

“Cersei,” he said grimly just as Tyrion said. “Wildfire!”

“What could she possibly be using wildfire on?”

“The city.” Tyrion stepped towards his brother. “You’re the only person that she might possibly listen to. You _must_ to get her to stop this madness.”

Jaime looked uncertain and glanced at Daenerys who nodded. “Go. If you succeed, I’ll consider pardoning your treasons.”

Jaime turned and ran down the stairs, disappearing into the darkness below.

“We cannot stay here,” Tyrion said again, looking around the dragonpits at their remaining entourage. “This entire place could go up in flames at any moment.”

“We can’t walk back through the city,” Jon said, “There’d be just as much risk as staying.”

“We’ll ride out on Drogon,” Daenerys said and turned back towards her black dragon. Jon fell in next to her with a sigh, looking around warily. As they got closer to the dragon, Rhaegal charged forward, screaming at Drogon who answered back. Jon and Dany jumped back as the dragons snapped at each other viciously.

“What’s going on?” Jon asked, ducking and pulling Dany with him as Rhaegal’s tail swung over their heads.

Daenerys shook her head. “I’m not sure. Wait here.” She stood slowly and moved over to Drogon, talking to him in a language Jon didn’t understand. Rhaegal fell back and turned to look at Jon, his bronze eyes gleaming. When Jon took a step towards the other dragon, the green’s teeth flashed as he tossed his head in irritation.

“It’s Drogon,” Dany said from several feet away. “He doesn’t want you near Drogon.”

Jon cursed. “Of course not.” He looked over at his new wife. “Get the others and go. I can find my own way out.”

Dany’s expression hardened. “No.” She looked around, her eyes fixing on her green dragon. “He’s protecting you. Perhaps he would allow you to ride him.”

 Jon shook his head. “Now is not the time—”

“I’m not leaving you here. We leave together or we don’t leave at all.”

He cursed and took a step toward the dragon. “Get the others prepared to leave,” he said grimly, not taking his eyes off of Rhaegal. Daenerys moved away, leading Davos, Missandei, Tyrion, and the others toward Drogon, all the while keeping a careful eye on him.

He took several deep breaths, trying to quench the fear rolling through him. Bran’s words surfaced in his turning thoughts and he latched onto them. He was as much a Targaryen as Daenerys was, he told himself over and over, still hardly believing it.

Rhaegal’s head dipped to his eye level as he stepped up next to his wing and the dragon made an almost soft crooning noise. Encouraged, Jon grabbed onto the scaly shoulder and with a heave, pulled himself up onto the dragon’s wing ignoring the stab of pain the movement caused in the wound in his side. He stopped, waiting to be thrown back to the ground, or giant, black teeth to sink into his side. The dragon shifted his weight, but when nothing else happened, Jon let out his held breath and pulled himself up the rest of the way onto the dragon’s back, settling himself between the tall spines.

“Jon!” a voice called, and he twisted around, shocked to see Arya running from the stairs towards them, blood covering the front of her clothes. Rhaegal twisted around, lurching several steps to meet her and she skidded to a stop in front of the huge dragon, her eyes wide.

Jon leaned down the side and held out his hand towards her. “We have to leave!”

Arya ripped her eyes away from the dragon and ran to its side fearlessly, jumping up to grab his hand and allowing him to hoist her up behind him.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, looking back at her.

“Not my blood.” She paused for a brief second. “Cersei is dead.”

Jon turned all the way around to meet her eyes. “What?”

“I didn’t do it, but I was going to. Someone else beat me to it.”

Jon tried to process the news, turning to look for Daenerys. She sat atop Drogon, the rest of their group huddled behind her, looking unusually small on top of the massive dragon.

“Meet with the army,” she called and leaned forward. Drogon leapt up, his wings blasting sand and air across the pit floor, causing Jon to have to avert his eyes.

Arya’s grip tightened around him as Rhaegal screamed, his head coming up as he watched his brother take to the air. Jon hadn’t the faintest idea on how to command a dragon. He gripped two of the nearest boney spikes, willing the beast to move much like he did his horse. Rhaegal looked back at him with one eyes, tossing his head.

Jon’s grip tightened. “We have to fly, boy,” he said almost pleadingly. The dragon shook its head again, it’s muscles bunching underneath them, and then it launched itself into the air.

Jon dropped closer to Rhaegal’s back, scrambling for purchase as the ground dropped away beneath them and he heard Arya gasp as the city came into view, smoke billowing from various buildings.

Jon felt a sense of wholeness and rightness steal over him as they climbed higher, banking over the burning city and turning towards the open plain outside of King’s Landing. His blood sang in his veins and he felt like he could breath for the first time in forever, at least since he’d come back from the dead, maybe since before he left Winterfell for the first time. He saw Drogon circling to land near the back of the army, and a part of him just wanted to keep flying, to just _go._ Even as the thought crossed his mind Rhaegal roared and his wings beat faster, driving them through the air.

Jon checked himself and shook his head slightly, knowing that it was a dream. He’d been brought back for a reason, and that reason wasn’t to run away. Rhaegal slowed and eventually started to drift downward, following his larger brother towards the ground. In the distance, Jon saw a flash of gold as Viserion circled over the other end of the massive army.

When they touched down, Arya was off in a flash, but Jon didn’t move, just looking down at the colossal beast below him, in awe at what had just happened.

“He suits you.” Daenerys’ voice carried up to him, and he turned to find her standing next to Arya, a small smile on her face. He forced himself to move and climbed down, his feet hitting the ground with a sharp pang of loss.

He shook his head and turned to the two women. “Arya says Cersei is dead.”

“Killed by the Kingslayer—seems to be a habit of his. We march on the city in the hour.”

Jon nodded and looked back at Rhaegal as the dragon moved away towards where the other two had landed. He glanced back at Daenerys and felt a small sliver of doubt rear its ugly head. He couldn’t deny his heritage anymore, not after what had just happened. He needed to tell her.

After they took the city.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to everyone that's stuck with the fic. I'm really blown away by the response this has gotten. Hopefully this will help with some of the withdrawals we're all having now that we're in hiatus land for who knows how long.

The gates were open when they arrived behind the army. Word of the queen’s death had spread almost faster than her wildfire. The city folk were a mixture of subdued and celebrating, some welcoming the victors, some not.

When they arrived at the Red Keep, Jon slowed his horse, sucking in a breath at the destruction. The entire lower half of the fortress was a smoking ruin, glass blown out of windows, and rocks strewn across courtyards.

Jaime Lannister and a host of Lannister soldiers waited for them just inside the gate. When Daenerys rode in, they knelt and waited. Jon dismounted, contemplating the Kingslayer. He looked like he’d aged ten years in the last few hours, his face lined with sorrow and a hollowness that made Jon almost feel sorry for the man.

“Rise, Ser Jaime,” Daenerys said as she dismounted her own white mare, her Dothraki guards closing around her.

“The Red Keep is yours,” he said as he stood, a wary look on his face.

“What’s left of it,” she said, looking up at the destruction.

“My sister was… thorough.”

Dany looked back at him. “What does that mean?”

Jaime shifted his weight, glancing at Jon and then at Tyrion who rode behind them. “Cersei always believed that if she couldn’t have something she believed was hers, then no one could. The Iron Throne…”

“She destroyed it?” Jon asked, taken aback.

“Not completely.”

They followed him through the destruction to the Throne Room, or what was left of it. As the huge main doors were swung open, it was obvious a large amount of wildfire had ravaged the place. The floor and walls were blackened, glass shattered, and at the end of the room, what was left of the Iron Throne stood shrunk and misshapen.

Dany stood, unmoving, as she stared at what was left of her birthright, her face completely blank.

Tyrion stepped up next to his brother and looked back at the others. “Let’s give the Queen a moment,” he said softly, ushering her entourage back the way they’d come.

Jon ignored him, remaining where he was, and Tryion eventually walked away without him, closing the huge doors behind them.

Jon watched as she approached the mangled chair, the thing she’d fought for her entire life. He trailed after her, stopping as she ran her fingers over the twisted metal and looked up at the broken ceiling, her expression closed and guarded.

“I saw this, years ago,” she said, her voice almost a whisper. Jon stepped closer, moving up a step closer to the throne. “In a vision in the House of the Undying.” She shook her head and turned back to him, her eyes haunted.

“It can always be remade,” he said.

She shook her head again and walked down the steps to meet him. “Maybe it doesn’t matter. The Night King is still out there. Until we defeat him, there will be no time for sitting on any throne.”

Jon let out a small breath, looking around the broken hall, the ghost of his own heritage and how that pertained to this room hitting him anew.  Why did Bran have to tell him? How could it possibly change anything now?

Daenerys stepped in front of him, the hint of a frown on her face. “What’s wrong? Something’s been bothering you since we left the Dragonpits.”

Jon moved back, needing physical space between them as he contemplated telling her. She’d just suffered a loss, but he was loath to continue lying to her. He should have told her on the trip to King’s Landing, but he’d half been in denial himself, trying to convince himself it wasn’t true. He was starting to realize that he wasn’t going to escape the truth, no matter how hard he ignored it. The growing intensity of the feelings between the two of them wasn’t making it any easier either.   

“There’s something I have to tell you,” he said before he even really realized he was doing it. He winced, looking down at the floor, his heart pounding in his chest.

Dany straightened, her face going blank as she took in his discomfort. “What is it?”

Jon looked up at her, searching her face for a moment before he continued. “I found out who my true parents were.”

“Your mother?” she asked, some emotion leaking back in to her eyes.

Jon’s hands clenched and unclenched. “Yes,” he said, and plunged on. “I’m the son of Lyanna Stark… and Rhaegar Targaryen. My father—uncle—claimed me as his bastard to protect me from the Baratheons.”

Silence grew between them, and he forced himself to look at her, at her impassive face. She blinked slowly and he saw her throat move. “How long have you known?” she asked, her voice tight.

“I found out when I returned to Winterfell.”

She gave a sharp nod, her gaze moving to what was left of the Iron Throne. “Who else knows?”

Jon let out a shuddering breath. “My family. Bran discovered the information.”

“And you believe it’s true?”

“I believe Bran. He has no reason to lie to me.”

“Why did you tell me now?” she asked, looking back at him, her blue eyes cold and biting.

Jon frowned, looking from her to the throne. “You needed to know, and if you think I have any desire to usurp your claim—”

“Your very existence usurps my claim,” she snapped, cutting him off. “You are the son of the Crown Prince. You are the rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“I don’t _want_ it,” he growled, stepping into her. “I could give two shits about who rules. You _know_ that. I had to tell you. _You’re my aunt_ , and we…” He stopped, realizing how close they were, one part of him wanting to grab her and kiss her and tell her that nothing had changed, and the other part disgusted with the very thought.

“I grew up believing that Viserys and I would be wed.” She shook her head. “That is not what concerns me.” She turned and walked away, pausing for a brief moment to turn back. “I trust you will not tell this information to anyone else.”

Jon didn’t answer. When she started to walk away again something broke loose inside of him. Prior to talking to Bran, Jon had known who he was. He’d accepted his place in the world and made peace with it. He’d lost all that with a few simple words. All he’d been left with was his conviction to fight for the living, and _her_ —a knowledge that she would be by his side in the wars ahead. As he watched her walk away, he felt his fragile reality crumble around him. 

He jumped after her, grabbing her arm and spinning her around, almost desperate to stop her. Daenerys’ eyes blazed and she went rigid under his hand as she glared back at him. He quickly let her go and swallowed hard, frustration giving way to the sinking feeling in his stomach. “Don’t do this,” he begged, his voice barely a whisper.

Her eyes darted back and forth between his, the cold fire in them dying slightly. “I know you don’t want the throne. I do…”

“But?”

“But there are other’s that will not care about what you want. They will not care about what I want.”

“Then no one else needs to know. We’re married. It doesn’t matter.”

A sad smile slipped over her face. “It will always matter.” And with that she turned and left the throne room.

Jon watched her go, his chest tight. He turned away, back toward the melted mass of a throne, and walked up the steps to stand before it, anger slowly building in him as he thought of all the pain the damn thing had brought to him and his family, anger at Daenerys for walking away, anger at Bran for bringing the whole damn thing to light. If Rhaegal had been anywhere nearby he would have had the dragon melt the throne into a puddle of iron.

“You look more brooding than usual,” a voice said behind him. Jon didn’t turn, barely keeping his rage in check and not in the mood for company.

“I’d like to be alone,” he said, managing to keep his voice relatively flat but knowing that he let some of his anger slip through.

Tyrion came to stand behind him. “That’s what our queen said.”

“Then maybe you should listen to her.”

“I am, that’s why I’m here with you.”

Jon grit his teeth and turned to leave, but the dwarf’s words stopped him short. “You love her, don’t you?” Tyrion called after him. “No one gets this angry over another person unless they love them or hate them.”

Jon couldn’t answer, couldn’t turn and face the man. Did he love her? He respected her, beyond a doubt, and certainly lusted after her, despite everything he’d learned. He knew he cared for her. When he’d watched her fall amongst the dead, his heart had nearly stopped again. Even now, the thought of her turning away from him nearly made him sick. 

He drew a deep breath and closed his eyes as Tyrion’s words sank in and twisted around his heart like a vice. He knew it was true with a certainty that ran soul deep. He'd only been lying to himself before, too caught up in his own issues to realize what was happening between them. 

“The political alliance between you is smart and necessary. We can’t afford to have your emotions muddy the waters when decisions have to be made. This alliance needs to make you both stronger, not more vulnerable. She’s already put herself at terrible risk to save you. And what happens if your relationship sours? I watched Robert and my sister destroy Westeros with their bickering and hatred. Whatever is going on between the two of you, good or bad, you need to put it aside. For the good of the Realm.”

Jon opened his eyes, his lips twisting in a bitter smile as he realized how completely and utterly fucked he truly was. “Love is the death of duty, someone once told me.”

“Smart someone,” Tyrion replied, stepping closer.

“He was.” Jon straightened. “It’s a shame that I’m a damn fool. Where is our Queen?”

Tyrion’s eyes narrowed. “Jon, I’m telling you this for your own good as well as hers.”

 “I know that,” he sighed, running a hand over his face. “And I appreciate your advice. I do. Now, where is she?”

Tyrion’s sigh was almost as heavy as his, but he answered Jon’s question.  

Jon found her standing in a room that had belonged to some queen or king or another, overlooking the ocean. She glanced back at him as he walked in, closing the door behind him, but didn’t say a word, turning back to stare at the gray-blue water far below.

“What do you want?” she asked quietly, not looking at him.

He walked up behind her and stopped, forcing himself to keep some distance between them. “I can’t change who I am or who my parents were. Neither can you. So have me killed and be done with it. Or don’t. But you know as well as I that we have more important things to worry about than who will sit on the damn throne when all that matters is over and done.”

“If I kill you, I would lose the North,” she said coolly.

Jon stalked around her, stepping between her and the balcony, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Is that really the reason you haven’t done it? Our political alliance?”

She looked up at him, her expression just as conflicted as his. “You know it’s not.”

He reached out towards her but she stepped back and he let his hands fall, his throat tight. “I _don’t_ know. All I know is that this is more than a marriage of convenience for me now. I can’t—I can’t do this without you.”

She stared at him, her eyes searching his as the silence stretched between them. She looked out at the water once more, at the dragons wheeling far out over the ocean. “Our birthrights were a lie. Everything I’ve done was because I _knew_ it was my destiny to sit on the Iron Throne…”

“It still is,” Jon said. “You’re here.”

“And so are you,” she replied, still not looking at him. “Even though the lie told to you was perhaps the biggest of them all.” She sighed. “Maybe Ser Davos was right. Perhaps destiny has brought us both here for a reason.”

“Fuck destiny. Fuck all of it,” Jon snapped, stepping towards her before he stopped himself. “ _All of it_ was a lie. We’re both here, together. That’s all that matters now. We make the best of what we have. We go on fighting until there’s nothing left, and we do it together. Otherwise, what’s the point of any of it?”

Dany turned back to him and he saw something new light in her eyes, a look of determination that he couldn’t interpret.  

She shook her head slightly and stepped into him, reaching up, her hands running over his beard to slip into his hair. “I’ve thought I was alone for so long, my family dead and gone, my husband dead and gone… and now I have you.” She met his gaze inches from her own and her fingers twisted in his hair, tightening, pulling him closer. “I don’t like to admit it, but that terrifies me. _More_ than the Night King, more than all our enemies in the Seven Kingdoms.” Her eyelids fluttered and she swallowed hard. “I hate it.” She shook her head again. “The thought of losing you…”

Jon reached up and took her face in his hands, mirroring her. “I am yours, forever, until I have nothing left.”

“And I am yours.”

Jon couldn’t help himself. He kissed her. She pressed into him, her arms slipping around his neck and pulling him closer as his lips claimed hers, tongues sliding against each other in a dance that left them gasping.

He pulled back abruptly, just looking at her, her half lidded eyes and parted lips. “Seven hells, I love you,” he breathed, unable to stop himself. “I know I shouldn’t, but I do.”

Dany’s eyes softened, and she kissed him lightly. “We are the last Dragons. I would doubt it more if we didn’t love one another.”

They stared at each other for a long, drawn out moment, each taking in everything between them. Jon could barely process his feelings let alone everything else. All he knew was that he needed her more than any other person, that he ached for her in a way that left him shaking.

The silent moment stretched and then, when he didn’t know if he could take another second, it snapped. They tore at each other’s clothes, capes and armor and sword belts scattering across the floor until he could pull her naked body into his.

It had been weeks since their wedding night, and he would have been lying to himself if he’d said he hadn’t thought of having her again, of being inside of her and feeling her move underneath him. The memory had haunted him with every thought of her.

He picked her up, kissing her fiercely as she wrapped her legs around his waist as they moved back towards the bed, his knees buckling when he hit the edge, dropping her down into his lap. He started to flip them, but she stopped him, instead positioning herself and sinking down onto him.

She nearly finished him right then and there, her eyes boring into his as she shifted her hips slightly. He groaned, pulling her tight against him and holding her in place, trying to get ahold of himself as he dropped his forehead to her chest.

She grabbed his hair, pulling his face up to kiss him, and he groaned into her mouth, thrusting up into her until she pulled away with a small cry, her back arching. His mouth found her breast, his tongue teasing her nipple until she writhed away, her breaths ragged in his ear, driving him truly crazy.

He flipped them over, pulling out of her, and holding her down with one hand as she fought to sit up. He shook his head and moved down her body, only knowing that he wanted to watch her fall apart, wanted to be the one that crumbled the careful façade of control that she wore even now.

When he settled between her legs, his mouth closing over her, her entire body went tight as a wire, her chest rising under his hand as she sucked in a gasping breath. He moved his tongue against her, his eyes meeting hers, and she groaned, falling back on the bed, her hips jerking involuntarily. He moved with her, holding her down as he continued to drive her to the brink, licking and kissing and sucking until she was clutching the thick blankets, her body trembling worse than a leaf in a storm. When he slid his fingers into her she screamed, her body buckling underneath him.

He grinned against her and then moved up, sliding himself into her again with a sigh. She opened her eyes and he froze, knowing that he was truly lost, completely gone for her in every way. He thrust into her, watching the way her lips parted, the way her heartbeat fluttered in her throat, wanting to memorize every single thing about her. When her hips lifted and met his, any thought left in him vanished. He moaned, losing himself in her completely. His rhythm quickened as her legs pulled him closer, her gasps hot against his neck and chest.

And when he finally spilled inside her, he collapsed in a boneless, nerveless mess, his face pressed to her skin, never wanting to move again. Little tremors shook her and her arms slowly wrapped around him, her fingernails digging into his sweat soaked skin, holding him in place with a fierceness that made him want to make love to her all over again.

“I love you,” she whispered, barely loud enough to be considered words.

He wrapped his arms between her and the blankets, pulling her closer to him, and just breathed in her smell, still inside of her and never wanting to be anywhere else.  She made a soft, contented sigh and he closed his eyes with a small smile.

Jon jerked awake to the harsh sound of several hard knocks on the door. Dany shifted languidly underneath him and he became instantly aware that he was still inside her, his weight pressing her down into the bed. He started up push himself off of her, but she held him in place, her eyes locked with his. “Who is it?” she called, her voice calm despite their position.

“Your Grace,” Missandei’s voice called softly through the door. “Lord Tyrion sent me. He said there were matters that required your attention.”

Dany closed her eyes for a brief moment then let him go. He rolled off of her gently, suppressing a groan at the loss and she slid off the bed, padding to the door naked. Jon stood, torn between watching her and pulling his clothes on, until she pulled the door open and allowed Missandei to enter.

The woman only briefly glanced at Jon as he jerked his pants up before turning back to Daenerys expectantly, and a part of Jon wondered jealously how many times she’d been privy to a similar situation.

“We need to speak to Lord Tyrion. Whatever matters need attending to can wait.”

Missandei nodded and with another quick glance at Jon, started to leave the room.

“Missandei,” Dany called, stopping the woman. “Take your time.”

A small smile slipped over Missandei’s face and then she left, pulling the door gently shut behind her.

Jon turned his shirt over in his hands, looking at Daenerys quizzically. “We need to talk to Tyrion _now_?”

“He needs to know. We both need advice on how to proceed.”

“I told you, it doesn’t matter—”

She walked up to him and silenced him with a kiss, the feel of her naked breasts on his chest through his shirt causing his head to spin all over again. “I know you don’t want the throne for yourself,” she said against his lips, sobering him in a second. “But it still matters. If something happens to me, someone else needs to know.”

Jon’s fingers slipped along her sides as she stepped away, feeling the physical loss of her down to his toes. He didn’t agree, but he didn’t argue, knowing it was pointless.

A wash basin near the bed had been filled before they arrived, and he watched as Dany slowly started cleaning herself, letting rivulets of water slowly run down her skin. He walked up next to her, grabbing her hand with the cloth, stopping her.

“Keep doing that, and this meeting of yours will never happen.”

Dany pulled her hand away, running the wet cloth over his chest, over the myriad of deep, vicious scars. “We have some time before they come back. You’d best be quick, Your Grace.”

Jon didn’t need to be told twice. He threw the cloth back into the basin and pulled her into him.

 

* * *

 

 

Dany sat at the small table in the room, her expression sober as Jon paced behind her, their brief escape from reality over.  She seemed completely back in control of herself and Jon envied her. He was still mentally steeling himself for the impending conversation, his mood slowly darkening again as all his other problems forced their way back into his mind.

Tyrion arrived some time later, a suppressed look of irritation on his face when he entered the room and saw the two of them. “You wanted to speak to me, Your Grace?” he asked, looking at Daenerys. “I’ve gathered the Commander of the City Watch and Ser Jaime to discuss preparations for the city. I was hoping you could speak to the—”

“This is more important,” Dany interrupted, clasping her hands on the small table before her. Jon stopped off to her side, forcing himself not to pace and wishing he could leave all together.

“I see,” Tyrion replied, coming farther into the room and sitting down across from her with a quick glance at the King in the North. “And what would that be?”

“We’ve recently received word of Jon’s true parentage.” Tyrion frowned slightly but didn’t interrupt. “He is the legitimate son of my brother Rhaegar and Lyanna Stark.”

 Jon watched Tyrion’s face move from confusion to shock to suspicion. “The honorable Ned Stark, honorable to the last. How do you know for certain?”

“It doesn’t matter. We know it’s true. As you’re aware, it’s a delicate matter. I called you here to hear your advice.”

Tyrion let out a bitter laugh. “Advice?” He looked at Jon who shifted uncomfortably on his feet. “You’re the rightful heir to the throne. Do you want it?”

“No,” he said simply, his tone clipped. He wanted it done and never spoken of again.

Tyrion looked thoughtful, falling back into his chair. “You’re already married, that eliminates that complication. You could co-rule—King and Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“I don’t want it,” Jon said again, his jaw clenching.

Tyrion shrugged. “Fantasy and reality can’t always be the same. I don’t know who else knows this information, but something this big is bound to get out eventually. We need a solid plan for when it does.”

“Think on it then,” Dany said and stood. “Until then, Jon will be my successor in the event of my death.”

“And after that? In the event you do not die tragically.” Tyrion asked softly.

Dany visibly stiffened. “What of it?”

“You cannot have children,” he said delicately.  “The logical next step, to ensure your House lives on, would be for the throne to pass to Jon’s children.”

Shock then anger flared in Jon white hot at the suggestion. “Are you proposing I father bastards so you have someone to stick a crown on after we’re gone? Do you really think _I_ would agree to that?”

Tyrion grimaced. “I know it’s not ideal, but it is an option. Another is simply taking another wife, though that may be more controversial.”

Jon grit his teeth, his hand clenched on Longclaw’s hilt. He looked at Dany who was staring at the table. “You’re not really considering this?”

She turned to him, her blue eyes betraying her turmoil. Jon stepped back from her, shocked that she was even considering either proposal, especially after what had just happened between the two of them not an hour prior. “No,” he said grimly and turned and stalked from the room, not looking back. Someone called after him, but he pushed past her guards and nearly ran down the stairs, just needing to put space between them.

He loved her with an intensity that terrified him, and he knew she loved him the same. He didn’t understand how she could then turn around and consider having him take another woman, especially with all the uncertainty posed by the Night King. The future and children seemed like a distant dream when faced with the reality of the Army of the Dead and its imminent attack.

 He didn’t realize where he was till he found himself in a courtyard, cold air stinging his skin. He gasped, nearly sickened by the stench of the city, wanting nothing more than open air and quiet to sort out his thoughts. Overhead, the dragons screeched, their shadows passing over the keep.

“Come back inside, Jon,” Dany’s voice said behind him and he stiffened.

He turned and looked at her. “You’re seriously considering what Tyrion said.”

She looked around the open courtyard, coming to stand before him. “I’m not talking about that here.”

Jon nodded. “Then we can talk about it in Winterfell. I’m leaving.”

Her look of surprise was almost comical. “You can’t leave. We have to have the coronation, prepare the southern armies to march—”

“Have your coronation, make your preparations. You don’t need me to do either.” A shadow passed overhead, the wind gusting around them. Jon could feel the dragon swoop overhead, almost like it was when he was with Ghost, and when Rhaegal touched down behind him, shaking the cobblestones under his feet, he let out a small breath.

Daenerys looked from the dragon to Jon, stepping close enough to touch him, though she didn’t reach out. “I need you here.”

A part of Jon softened even as he knew he couldn’t stay. He reached out and tucked a stray strand of her silver hair back behind her ear. “I love you, but I _will not_ do as you and Tyrion desire. When you’re ready, I’ll be waiting for you at Winterfell.” His fingers lingered on her skin and then he forced himself to turn and walk away. He kept stride as he approached Rhaegal, the dragon’s head and wings lowering as he approached, a soft crooning noise surrounding him.  

He didn’t look back until they were in the air, pulling away from the ground, her slim figure growing smaller and smaller, and he prayed to the old gods and the new, even the Lord of Light, that he wasn’t making a terrible, terrible mistake.


	7. Chapter 7

Sansa glanced back at the massive green dragon perched on the Broken Tower of Winterfell and again felt a feeling of disbelief steal over her. Its wings were tucked in tight to its body, but its head was up, occasionally snapping at the irritated crows that would fly by. Sansa had tried not to be impressed when Jon had returned of the back of the huge beast and had failed miserably. Before his arrival, a part of her still hadn’t truly believed that dragons had returned to the world, despite the ravens she’d received from Jon and other reports she had read. Hearing rumors of dragons was quite different from seeing them with one’s own eyes. The dragon was bigger than she could have possibly imagined and she still felt completely awed every time she saw the beast flying overhead or perched around the castle.

She turned back around and looked at the snow covered field, fighting down her trepidation.  Their party waited for Queen Daenerys’ arrival and no one knew quite what to expect.

She looked over at her brother as he shifted in his saddle, his expression dark, his shoulders hunched. He’d arrived at Winterfell several weeks prior on the back of the impressive beast, alone, with news that they had taken King’s Landing and that Cersei was finally dead. His arrival with the dragon had silenced the remaining grumblings of their Northern Bannermen, but Sansa knew they weren’t completely out of the woods.

Just before his arrival, she’d received a raven from the capital, announcing the death of the Usurper Cersei, of the House Lannister. The letter had gone on with a demand for pledges of fealty to be sworn to Queen Daenerys and King Jon, Protectors of the Seven Kingdoms, with their official coronation to be held after their victory in the Great War in the North. Jon had been in a dark mood when he’d arrived and it had just gotten darker when Sansa had told him the news. She’d asked, then demanded, to know what had happened and every time he had refused to talk about it.

Now they waited for the Dragon Queen’s arrival on the fields outside Winterfell and Sansa had no idea what to expect. To anyone else, her brother looked calm and collected, but she could tell that was all a lie. From the way he shifted in his saddle to the way he would look at the sky, catch himself, and then hunch his shoulders, Sansa knew he was just as anxious for Daenerys’ arrival as she was, perhaps even more so.

The sound reached them first, the rumbling of thousands of horse hooves and the marching of men. Behind them a dragon screamed, and Sansa turned to see Rhaegal lift into the air and then soar toward the mass of men just cresting the distant hill. An echoing call followed and Sansa gasped as an even larger black dragon dropped out of the ever persistent clouds, nearly colliding with the green one followed by a lighter colored one, somewhat smaller. The three wheeled and dived over the snow covered moors before banking and heading off towards Winterfell.

It seemed to take forever for the armies to arrive, and at their front, a slight woman with gleaming silver hair on a silver mare, her red cape shocking against the white surrounding her. Sansa had to admit she was an impressive sight and shockingly beautiful, and she started to understand why Jon had become so taken with her. Her entourage stopped a respectful distance from them, but she road closer, pulling up only a few feet in front of them.

“Welcome to Winterfell, Your Grace,” Sansa said after the silence had stretched to the point of uncomfortable. “I’m Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell.”

Daenerys’ cold expression warmed slightly, the hint of a smile playing on her lips. “Thank you, Lady Sansa. It’s a pleasure to finally be here.” Her eyes shifted to Jon and the smile slipped. “Hopefully all the northern lords will be just as welcoming.”

Sansa glanced between them, wondering yet again what had happened in King’s Landing, hoping Jon hadn’t been foolish enough to tell her about his parents. “We have warm food and warmer beds prepared, Your Grace. If you’d follow me…” She turned her horse and waited as the woman rode up between her and Jon before starting off. She road next to them for a ways before falling back, watching them as she waited.

Jon road next to his wife, close enough that their knees were brushing, the two taking turns casting glances at each other but neither speaking. Sansa sighed. Of all the things she thought she was going to have to deal with upon the queen’s arrival, this had not been one of them. It would have been challenge enough introducing her and Jon as a united front to the northern Bannermen. Now, her job had just gotten exponentially harder.

A horse and rider road up next to her and she turned to see Tyrion, his expression grim. “Lady Stark,” he said, very deliberately. “You’re looking very well after all this time.”

She smiled. Jon had mentioned that Tyrion had considered their marriage a shame, but hearing the subtle confirmation from him was somewhat of a relief. “As are you, Lord Tyrion. It’s good to see you.”

The road after the king and queen, quiet for a time. “You’ll have to tell me the story of how you managed to escape all the way across the Narrow Sea. I’m sure it’s quite a tale.”

Tyrion shrugged. “Not as thrilling as one would like, as I told your brother.”

Sansa frowned, still watching the pair. “Was their marriage your idea?”

“No, the queen came up with that one all on her own.” He glanced over at her. “We’re going to have our work cut out for us with the two of them, you know.”

Sansa raised a brow. “Everyone knows that Jon is too honorable for his own good. I’d assumed that the queen would even out his more foolish tendencies.”

“On that count, I believe she does, and I’ll admit he counters her more reckless impulses. I was referring more to the, uh, succession issue.”

Sansa forced herself not to turn and look at him, her heart skipping a beat.

“He said his family knew… about who his mother and father were.”

Sansa let out a long breath, cursing Jon and his foolish honesty. “I assume the queen knows as well.”

“He told her first.”

“And I take it that did not go well. That’s why he left and came back to Winterfell.”

“Not exactly, but I can’t go into details without discussing it with the queen first.”

Sansa shook her head. “We need to resolve this issue as soon as possible. I’m getting reports that are disturbing to say the least. We’re running out of time to prepare and we can’t have the king and queen distracted while doing so.”

“Then we’re in perfect agreement.”

* * *

 

Jon sat across the table in the Great Hall watching Dany pick at her food and could barely stay seated in his chair. They still hadn’t spoken a word to each other and his patience and stubbornness had just about run out.

Their gathering was small, mostly just the Starks and Dany’s small council. Jon itched to send everyone away but knew etiquette demanded otherwise, so he sat, one foot tapping the floor, glaring at his wife, and waited.

Dany glared back, obviously just as anxious to address him alone as he was.  Occasionally her eyes would dart to the huge direwolf sitting next to him, Ghost almost as keyed up as Jon watching all the new strangers eating. Jon was so oblivious to all else going on around him that he failed to see the slight figure stalk up next to him, or the hand that darted out and slapped him hard across the face.

He jerked to his feet, turning to find Arya standing next to him, her expression grim. “Next time you decide to abandon me in a hostile city, at least have the courage to tell me to my face,” she said, her voice steady, but he could see the anger simmering in her eyes.

He sighed, guilt and relief at seeing her rolling through him, “I’m so sorry, Arya. I wasn’t thinking—”

She shook her head and pulled him down to her, her embrace just as fierce as she was. “I understand,” she said, her voice low. “But don’t do it again.”

He sighed again and nodded and she let him go, walking over to take a seat next to Sansa who looked extremely disapproving. He looked back out at the dinner party, all of them having stopped eating and were watching silently, uncomfortable expressions on their face. Jon started to sit back down then stopped. He grit his teeth and walked around the table to stop in front of Dany.

“Your Grace,” he said, his voice tight. “I’d like to speak with you. Alone.”

Daenerys took a final sip from her flagon and then set it gingerly back on the table before standing slowly. She turned to look at Sansa. “Thank you for the lovely meal. I believe I will retire.”

Sansa nodded. “I can have someone show you to your rooms.”

Dany shook her head, her eyes locked on Jon’s. “I believe the king knows the way.”

Jon felt his chest go tight, barely remembering to nod to Sansa before leading Dany from the Hall, Ghost padding silently after them. She waved off her ever-present Blood Riders and they soon found themselves relatively alone in the halls with only the eyes and whispers of the servants following them.

He glanced back at her as they walked, heading deeper and higher into the castle. “Sansa had the finest guest chambers prepared,” he finally said, unable to take the silence any longer. “It’s not the Red Keep, but it’s warm and it’s dry and it has the finest view in Winterfell.”

“No,” Dany said stepping up next to him. He looked over at her with a frown and she continued. “I’ll stay in your rooms.”

Jon stopped. “My rooms aren’t fit for the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.”

She quirked a brow. “Yet they’re fit for the King?”

He scowled at the reminder, cursing under his breath, and started down the hall again, changing course for his own rooms. When they arrived he pushed the door open and stepped back, making room for her to walk past, the smell of her sending memories washing over him. He let Ghost in then shut the door, throwing the bolt before turning and watching her.

Dany stood facing his room, taking in the small chamber for a long moment before turning back to him, and examining him as well, her eyes roving over him slowly before meeting his eyes. She appeared about to say something when Ghost walked up to her, coming to stand directly between her and Jon, the huge wolf almost eye level with her.

Her brow furrowed slightly in the firelight from the hearth, but she held her ground, not backing away, and slowly held out her hand. Ghost smelled it for a moment then pushed his head into her hand. He stepped into her, licking her face before she could stop him then padding over to the fireplace and dropping onto the floor with a whumpf.

“He’s marvelous,” she said softly, looking back at Jon with a small smile, and he almost forgot all the tension and unspoken conflict between them. For a brief moment, all he wanted to do was pull her into him and kiss her till she was breathless then make love to her on every surface in the room. His breath caught at the thought, but a moment later reality came crashing down and the familiar tension settled back in his chest.

“I haven’t changed my mind about the succession. You need to know that.”

Dany straightened, her hands clasping in front of her. “I’m not going to apologize for what happened. My Hand was presented with a problem, and he provided me with solutions to that problem. It is my job as Queen to consider all possibilities and select what is best for our people. That was what I did.” Some of the stiffness went out of her. “But I understand that none of that was done in the most tactful way. I hurt you, and for that, I’m sorry.”

Jon closed his eyes briefly and let out a breath before looking at her again. “I overreacted. I shouldn’t have left.”

“No, you shouldn’t have, but that did make the matter of your kingship easier.”

“I told you, I never wanted that.”

“You can’t hide your parentage forever, Jon. Crowning you king alongside me makes that information unable to harm us. Now we can use it to our own advantage.”

“And the succession?”

“No longer matters.”

“And why is that? What plan did Tyrion concoct now?” he snapped bitterly.

“I’m with child.”

Jon’s mouth snapped shut on whatever response he’d been about to throw her way. His heart picked up, pounding in his ears harder than it had when he’d faced the Night King or when he’d blocked Ramsey’s arrows in the Winterfell courtyard. “How? I thought…”

“I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. I recognized the signs just after you left King’s Landing. I have no doubt.”

Jon took a step towards her, overwhelmed with emotion, and then stopped himself. Jon had given up on the hope of children years before, even before he’d joined the Night’s Watch. The fear of fathering bastards, or of having to pass on the name Snow to a legitimate child had turned his stomach. Even when he’d lain with Ygritte, the fear slept in the back of his mind, even after she had assured him that she knew how to not get herself with child. The day before his marriage on Dragonstone, Missandei had come to him on her queen’s behest and told him that Daenerys was unable to have children. It had just been further confirmation that his conviction had been the right one. He was not meant to be a father.  

None of that meant that deep down, if things had been different, he hadn’t longed for it.

Now he stared at her, the possible mother of his child, and stopped himself from grabbing her and spinning her around. He had no idea how she felt about it. He knew she’d had a child with her first husband, and that she had lost them both, that it had affected her more deeply then she would ever admit. But they’d never spoken of other children. It had been in impossibility that both had accepted and moved on from.

She watched him, her face carefully blank. “Say something, Jon.”

“Are you happy?” he asked, barely able to force out the words.

A little pent up laugh escaped her, something filled with happiness and loss and a hundred other sentiments Jon couldn’t name as emotion flooded back onto her face. “Of course I am. I believed for so long that I was cursed, but now—”

He closed the gap between them and pulled her to his chest, wrapping his arms around her, his face buried in her hair. She slipped her arms under his cloak, holding him just as tightly and laid her head on shoulder, her breath warm on his neck. “I’m so sorry I left. I never should have gone. You should have called me back.”

“Would you have come?” she asked. “If I had demanded your return with no explanation, would you have obeyed?”

He sighed, strands of her hair tickling his face. “No.”

He pulled back, looking at her face with a wonder he’d never felt before. He reached up, brushing her hair back from her face, his fingers tracing her brow, her cheek bone. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, so much so that it hurt his heart.

She smiled at him, a small curve of her lips. “I’ve missed you.”

He let out a small sigh and kissed her, pulling her closer till they were pressed together. Her hands fumbled at his back and a moment later his cloak dropped to the floor.

Their love making was slow and thorough and everything it hadn’t been before. They took their time learning each other’s bodies, and each time they would fall apart into the furs, exhausted, they would learn about each other. They’d talk in soft voices, hands running over sweat soaked skin and legs tangled up with one another. There was so much that they still didn’t know about each other, things they’d never had the time to talk about.

Jon never wanted it to end. Even when they both could barely keep their eyes open, neither slept, knowing that the morrow would bring all of their problems back with it. So they laid on the bed well into the night, eventually just holding each other and enjoying the silence between them.

* * *

 

The fire had burned low, the warm embers casting deep shadows about the room. Ghost had curled up into a ball by the hearth, his red eyes closed and his nose buried in his tail. Dany watched the huge direwolf sleep with half shut eyes as she trailed her fingers through Jon’s hair, his head on her chest, his hand tracing patterns on her stomach.

“This was your room as a boy, wasn’t it?” she asked softly, barely loud enough to be heard over the crackling of the fire.

He shook his head slightly on her chest. “This was my brother Robb’s room. If you think this is small, you should see my actual room. Catelyn wanted to keep me with the servants if she couldn’t banish me completely, but my father wouldn’t allow it.”

“You could show me.”

“It’s not a sight you want to see. Not something I want to see again either, if truth be told. Besides, someone else probably uses it now.”

“Why didn’t you take the Lord’s Chamber when you retook Winterfell?”

She felt his body tense next to her. “Didn’t seem right. I’m not a Stark, never will be. Sansa is the Lady of Winterfell, she deserved those rooms.”

She brushed his hair back, wishing she could sooth his memories as easily. “You are a Stark… and a Targaryen. You always have been.”

His fingers trailed over her skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps behind. “And that doesn’t bother you, truly?”

“No, it doesn’t. If Rhaegar’s other children had survived, there’s a very good possibility that I would have been wed to Aegon. It’s the way of our family. Does it bother you?” she asked, her hands stilling.

He sighed, looking up at her. “At first, yes, but the more I thought of it,” he shook his head and his hands tightened on her, “the more I realized I didn’t care. I just love you too damn much.”

“Good,” she said, her hand clenching in his hair. “If you had never touched me again, I think I would have gone mad.”

Jon chuckled and laid his head back down between her breasts.

“This child changes everything, Jon. The Targaryens aren’t doomed to disappear… and with the dragons…” She trailed off, visions of the future dancing before her. “We could remake the world. Truly make it a better place.”

“I can’t think about that,” he said softly. “Not with the Night King so close.”

Dany let out a long breath, pulled back into the moment. “I’m sure Tyrion will be thrilled when he finds out. The succession issue has been bothering him since you left King’s Landing.”

His loose grip on her tightened slightly. “Who else knows you’re with child?” he asked.

“Just Missandei. I wanted to tell you first.” She let out a small chuckle. “And if I’d told Tyrion, he would have tried to stop me from riding north. That was an argument I didn’t want to have to win.”

“I imagine you’ll want to make an announcement soon?”

She started to say yes then hesitated.  She’d been shocked and then ecstatic when she’d realized what was happening to her body. But as time went on, fear settled deep in her heart, fear that this time would be like the last, that she would lose her child before he could really live. A part of her felt that if she told her people, it would make it that much more real, and the loss that much closer. “We have to,” she said after a long moment.

He sat up and looked at her intently, the hearth fire glinting in his dark eyes. “You know you can wait if you want. This child is ours first, and everyone else’s second. Announcing it now, or in a few months when you can’t hide it anymore won’t make a damn bit of difference.”

Dany looked at him, considering. She hadn’t really put serious thought into waiting to announce her pregnancy. It was such a huge piece of information that she’d just naturally assumed that everyone needed to know. She knew they still did, but her own deep seated fear made her hesitate and want to wait. “A few more days won’t hurt,” she said finally.

Jon pushed himself up her body and kissed her before settling next to her again. “Besides,” she said, watching him, “we need to scout. It will be better if we both go.” She saw him tense, wanting to argue, to keep her and their child safe. “I can’t sit out this war. You know if I do, there may not even be a world left for our child to be born into.”

Jon’s eyes bore into her own, but eventually he nodded. They’d both seen the Army of the Dead. They both understood.

They curled around each other again, taking what comfort they could in the closeness, and when the winter sun finally peaked through the window panes, they were both still awake.

* * *

 

The Great Hall was packed, all the Northern lords having come to catch a glimpse of the famed Dragon Queen. Sansa sat at the head table, two empty seats for the king and queen beside her.

Tyrion entered, ignoring the slew of muttering that erupted at his presence and walked up to her, his expression wary.

“My lady,” he said in a low voice, looking around the hall.

“My lord,” she replied, turning to him and pointedly ignoring the muttering.

Tyrion leaned across the table, pulling a pitcher of wine closer and pouring them both flagons. He handed one to her then took a sip of his own. “I heard the servants talking on my way down,” he said quietly.

“Did you now?”

He nodded. “I did. Very gossipy bunch. Apparently our dear king and queen reconciled the differences between them last night.”

Sansa took a sip of her own wine. “And you had to get that information from eavesdropping on the chambermaids?” She shook her head. “I talked to Jon this morning.”

“Your brother doesn’t strike me as the type of man to kiss and tell.”

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t be crude. He told me they both wanted to talk to the Bannermen.” She smirked. “I may have also heard the queen’s rooms went unused last night.”

“Aha! Chambermaids do have all the best gossip.” Tyrion grinned, looking back out at the gathered lords and the good humor slowly slipped from his face. “Your brother didn’t also happen to mention _why_ they’d called for this meeting? I thought we had all agreed to wait until we’d received more news from Last Hearth?”

Sansa shook her head. “It’s good to know that Daenerys talks to you about as much as Jon talks to me. He just told me that they wanted to speak with the Bannermen.”

Tyrion sighed. “Yes, why would they want to talk to their advisors before addressing a room of the most hardened and volatile lords in Westeros?”

Several Dothraki streamed into the hall and Sansa stood as Jon and Daenerys entered. Jon stopped just in front of the main table, but the queen walked boldly to the front of the Hall, her gaze taking in the now silent Northern lords. Sansa was surprised to see she was in Stark colors, her dress a dove gray and her cloak the cool white of fresh snow.

The silence stretched till only the wind outside the hall could be heard buffeting the doors. “My lords,” she finally said, her voice booming in the quiet. “I am Daenerys Stormborn of House Tararyen.” She let that hang for a moment before continuing. “I know you do not like me. My father wronged you. The South wronged you. Nothing I say here, today, will erase the past.”

Whispered words flew between some of the lords as she continued.  

“Words are wind, my lords. I am here _now_ to make amends for those past wrongs, not with words, but with my actions, to ensure we _have_ a future. I am here to fight for the North, to give you my full strength so that together we can defeat the Night King and his armies. Together we will make this world a better place for ourselves and our children.”

A few voices sounded in consent until a louder voice broke the spell. “And what of the other Southron lords? Do they plan on helping us? Or are we expected to die while they hole up in their southern castles and wait for spring?” someone towards the back called out.

Jon stepped forward. “Jaime Lannister has pledged his House and his Banners to House Targaryen. He’s leading the combined Southern forces towards Last Hearth as we speak.”

“No one can trust the Kingslayer! He should have been put down with his mad sister!” another lord shouted, and several shouted in agreement. “Never trust a Lannister!”

Sansa glanced at Tyrion whose face remained impassive.  

“The time for bickering between Houses is over,” Jon said, moving up next to Daenerys, the two standing shoulder to shoulder. “Ser Jaime is a capable general. He’s proven his loyalty and we need him.” Jon’s tone softened slightly.  “Besides, the southern Houses are as likely to trust a northern lord as we are a southern one. Having a Lannister at the head of their forces will reassure them that we are here to work together.”

“And do we even know where the Army of the Dead is? The last reliable reports we received were from Eastwatch,” Lord Glover asked, his characteristic scowl darker than normal. “For all we know, the dead could be at Winterfell within the fortnight, not Last Hearth.”

“The king and I will scout for our enemy. We will cover more ground on dragonback and return with the information we need to form our battle plans,” Daenerys said matter-of-factly.

Tyrion cursed under his breath but Sansa stood, not about to ignore the cold dread that ran down her spine. “Your Grace, it would be extremely foolish for both of you to go. Perhaps only one…”

Both of them turned to look at her, Jon with the exasperated look he always wore when she tried to tell him he was making a mistake, but Daenerys’ expression made her hold her words. The woman’s eyes were hard and cold and Sansa knew she wasn’t used to anyone questioning her decisions. Sansa glanced at Tyrion, but he just shook his head. She took a deep breath, but didn’t sit back down, instead remaining standing and waiting, letting the queen know that she wasn’t going to drop her concerns but she would wait to voice them.

Daenerys eventually glanced at Jon then turned back to the northern lords. “I thank you all again for your support. We will speak again once we return,” she said and turned back to the table, walking around to take one of the empty seats next to Sansa.

The hall slowly cleared out and Sansa waited, her hands pressed firmly into the wood of the great table. When the doors finally boomed shut again, Daenerys stood, walking back out to the open area of the hall.

Jon stepped up to his sister. “Sansa, you can’t—”

“If you had bothered to talk to me before this meeting then I wouldn’t have to,” she snapped. “I’ve told _you_ that before as well.”

“We cannot afford to be undermined every time you dislike our decisions,” Daenerys said coolly, turning back towards the group.

“When you are putting my brother in harm’s way—”

“ _Not_ your brother.”

Everyone flinched, especially Jon. Sansa felt anger boil up inside of her. “— _My brother_ in harm’s way, I am going to voice my concerns.”

“Enough!” Jon yelled, slamming a fist on the table. Sansa jumped. “How can we expect the northern and southern lords to work together when we can’t even stop fighting amongst ourselves?” he demanded, looking between them. “Sansa’s right. We should have talked to her and Tyrion before talking to the Bannermen.” He looked over at the queen. “And so is Daenerys. The northerners already have enough reason to distrust her. We can’t afford any more bad blood between us.”

“I couldn’t have said it better myself,” Tyrion said, stepping up next to Sansa. “But that still doesn’t solve the problem of this scouting trip. You both can’t go.”

“You mean shouldn’t,” Daenerys said, moving closer as well, her expression still displeased.

“Believe me,” Jon said, “if I could do this myself, I would, but there’s just too much area to cover. We have no idea where the Night King went after Eastwatch fell. It’s been weeks and all we’ve heard are rumors. He could be anywhere.”

“And what happens when you find him?” Tyrion asked, looking at his queen almost pleadingly. “You said one of the White Walkers injured Drogon the last time you faced them. The risk is too great.”

“The risk is too great if we stay and do nothing,” Daenerys said softly. “We both leave in the morning. We’ll return in two days.”

Tyrion sighed and looked at Sansa, a long suffering look on his face. She sat back down in her chair. “This is a terrible plan.”

Jon nodded. “It is, but it’s the only one we’ve got.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully this chapter will help to address the Bran issue... :)

Jon took his horse’s reins from the stable boy, rubbing a hand over the horse’s muzzle before turning back to his sister. “It’s only a few days,” he said for what felt like the hundredth time.

Sansa shook her head, looking away, exasperated. “That’s not the problem and you know it. Let me talk to Bran again. Maybe he can—”

“You know he can’t,” Jon cut in. He had gone to his brother the morning after Dany had proposed the scouting mission, hoping that Bran would be able to help. He still didn’t know exactly what his brother could do, but after he’d received the information about Eastwatch, Jon hoped that Bran would be able to do something similar again. Unfortunately, Bran had informed him that he’d been unable to see the Night King since the dead had passed south of the Wall, something that obviously frustrated him immensely. “He said he’s been unable to use the ravens to scout that far for weeks.”

Sansa’s gaze drifted towards the godswood, a crease appearing between her eyes for a moment before she eventually turned back to her brother. She reached out and gripped his arm, hard enough that he glanced at her hand before meeting her gaze. “I know you, Jon,” Sansa said, an intensity to her words that made him pause. “If you find them, don’t do anything stupidly brave. Just because you’ll be on a dragon doesn’t mean you’re invincible.”

Jon reached up and put a hand over hers, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “You don’t have to worry.”

Sansa let her hand drop. “Of course I do. One of us does.”

“Where’s Arya?” he asked, looking around the courtyard. He saw Dany emerge from the keep dressed in her heavy white furs and make her way towards them. The sight of her sent a wave of affection rolling through him. He knew he was staring and her tore his eyes back to Sansa’s knowing gaze.

“She’s been spending all her time down with the blacksmiths.” Sansa’s tone indicated her frustration with her sister.

“Still no Valyrian steel, then,” Jon tugged at his gloves, watching Dany approach.

“No, none of the smiths have been able to decipher the cave instructions. Arya says they’re still working on it.” Sansa turned as Daenerys walked up to them, leading her own white mare. “Your Grace,” she said, her tone polite.

Jon looked between the two and sighed. They were too alike for their own good. Dany had later expressed some remorse to Sansa for her outburst in the Great Hall but the tension between them was still palpable.

Dany nodded to her. “We should be on our way.”

Jon nodded, throwing his reins over his horse’s neck and mounting up. They’d decided to ride out onto the moors before calling the dragons. The Winterfell courtyards would have barely held them and most of the lords and smallfolk were still extremely uncomfortable with the dragons. Jon looked down at Sansa, forcing a smile. “I’ll see you soon.”

Sansa nodded and raised a hand in farewell as they rode out, their Blood Riders close behind.

Dany rode up next to him and he glanced at her, worry rushing over him. They’d decided that she would ride for Karhold while he flew up the King’s Road for Last Hearth, searching east of Long Lake and then north towards the Wall if he encountered nothing before then. Dany would meet him at Last Hearth that night and they would head back to Winterfell the next day. Dany claimed that Drogon was faster than Rhaegal and could cover the distance in a shorter time. Viserion would go where he would, but would most likely follow Dany.

Jon prayed that he found the dead first. The thought of her and their unborn child encountering the Night King alone save for her dragons made his heart shudder. He knew he couldn’t stop her from going, knew that she _had_ to go for the good of them all, but that didn’t mean that every moment she was out of his sight didn’t strike fear into his heart.

“It’s going to be fine,” she said, casting him a glance. He blinked, realizing he’d been staring at her.

“I know,” he replied. “Sansa told me not to do anything stupidly brave. I think I should tell you the same. You find them and you leave.”

She nodded, looking up as the three dragons swooped low over their heads, blasting them with cold wind and icy snow. Their horses danced underneath them as the dragons landed a short distance away, and finally Jon was forced to dismount, handing his horse off to one of the Dothraki.

Dany jumped off her own mare and Jon was reminded of how good she really was on a horse, all her time spent with the Dothraki not forgotten. He handed her a small pack from his saddle and she swung it over her shoulder as she started towards the dragons.

Jon watched her for a long moment before he hurried after her, reaching out and pulling her into him before she could break off towards Drogon.

Her brow quirked as she looked up at him and his grip tightened. He wanted to tell her a thousand things—that he loved her, that she needed to be careful, that he _needed_ her to come back. Instead he kissed her, a desperateness to it that made them gasp and clutch each other closer, their breath mingling in the cold air. “We meet at Last Hearth,” he said, his voice low.

“Last Hearth,” she replied, the look in her eyes a promise, and then she was gone.

* * *

 

Dany tucked herself closer to Drogon’s back, trying to ignore the cold that was seeping into her bones. She’d been flying for hours, seeing nothing but snow covered hills and trees and the occasional settlement. There had been no sign of the dead anywhere between Winterfell and Karhold, or on her flight towards Last Hearth. Part of her hoped Jon had better luck, knowing that they had to find the Army of the Dead, and another part of her hoped he hadn’t found a trace of them.   

The sky had grown darker as she traveled north, the snow becoming fiercer, but she could just see the top of the castle in the distance, coming and going between the bouts of snow. Viserion soared over top, the wind from his wings buffeting them and Drogon gave a short screech of protest. The cream dragon had accompanied her for much of the journey, disappearing for short stretches and then returning.

As she dropped lower, farther out of the clouds, she saw what looked like a string of wagons and horses sprawled along the road leading away from the castle. She urged Drogon lower and frowned as she saw the mass of people surrounding the wagons, many carrying belongings on their back, some not carrying anything at all. She sat up and looked off into the distance again toward the castle, worry and dread starting to creep in. Drogon’s wing beats picked up and they flew closer, following the string of fleeing people.

As they got closer, she saw there were soldiers fortifying the walls of the keep, many of them cheering when they saw her fly by. She tore her eyes from Last Hearth and looked north, her blood freezing in her veins.

Across the snow blown plain she saw the Army of the Dead, hundreds of thousands of them spread across the distant horizon, huge giants and decaying mammoths interspersed with the shuffling wights. Dany pulled Drogon up, not wanting to get closer yet. She looked back at the castle, knowing that they didn’t stand a chance, and wheeled her dragon back around.

She landed in the courtyard to utter chaos. Men ran about and horses screamed as she slid off Drogon’s back, hitting the cobblestones and looking around urgently. Several men stood near the keep’s entrance and finally a young boy strode forward hesitantly, a sword too big for him hanging at his hip.

“Y-your Grace,” he stuttered, his eyes wide as he looked from her to the dragon. “I’m Ned Umber, Lord of Last Hearth. We’ve been trying to send ravens for days, but they keep flying off to the north or dying in their mews. Did one manage to make it to Winterfell? Are you here to help us fight?”

Dany looked around the courtyard at the pitifully small number of men manning the walls.  “I am not, Lord Umber. You cannot stay here. Last Hearth is already lost.” She looked at the boy whose face hardened at the pronouncement.

“This is my family’s home. I will not abandon it to the dead.”

Dany shook her head, aware of how little time they had to escape before they were overrun. “You cannot hold against what is coming. If you stay, you will become the very horror that we are fighting. As your queen, I am commanding you to stand down. Take your men and march hard for Winterfell.”

Ned Umber gripped the hilt of the huge sword at his side. “I know no king but the King in the North, whose name is Stark. The King told me to hold this castle, and that is what I intend to do.”

Dany fought to push aside her anger that raged inside of her at the pronouncement, knowing that it wouldn’t help. “Your king wouldn’t want you to die for nothing.  Your lives are worth more to him than an assortment of stones. Leave now and have the chance to give your lives for the living North, not a lost castle.”

Ned looked back at the men behind him, a deep frown on his face. Dany could tell he was scared. They all were. She heard a dragon scream in the distance and her eyes shot to the sky. Drogon roared in response, his wings flapping once with impatience, obviously keen to join his brother in the sky. Another roar sounded, farther away than the first, and Dany felt like she could breathe again, knowing Jon had finally arrived.

She looked back at Ned Umber, her expression hard. “The king is on his way. Do you want to wait here to explain to him why your blind loyalty got your men killed or meet him on the road to Winterfell having done what is right? I will leave the choice to you.” She turned and remounted Drogon, watching the boy grow even smaller as she was launched into the air, the castle falling away beneath her.

As she climbed, she realized that even if they were to leave, there was no guarantee they would have time to get away. The army didn’t appear to be moving very fast, but Last Hearth had women and children in their party, wagons laden with much needed food that were slowing them down. She drew in a deep breath of cold air, know what she had to do.

She started to fly towards the dead when Rhaegal and Jon dropped in front of her. Drogon screamed at the green dragon and Jon motioned at the ground, obviously wanting to talk to her. Dany cursed, but followed him back down, the two dragons circling each other before dropping into the snow outside of Last Hearth.

Jon jumped off Rhaegal’s back, running over to Drogon’s side to look up at her. “Ned’s evacuating the castle. I saw them leaving when I arrived,” he called up to her, glancing over the field towards where the dead would be appearing.

Dany let out a relieved breath. “We have to buy them time,” she said.

Jon looked up at her, his brow furrowed. “Three dragons by themselves aren’t going to stop that army.”

“We don’t need to stop it. We need to slow it down, distract it.”

She saw his jaw clench, his head tilt slightly in indecision. “You don’t understand—”

“I’m not going to leave and let these people die, _your_ people.  You can help me, or I’ll do it myself.”

 Jon looked like he’d seen a ghost. He swallowed hard and looked back out of the snowy field, his frown deepening as his hands clenched. He looked back at her with a hardened gaze. “We stay on the outskirts, attack the vanguard. And stay away from the giants. I don’t know if they have weapons, but I’ve seen them shoot arrows higher than the Wall.” He stepped up on Drogon’s shoulder and grabbed her hand, forcing her to look at him. “And if anything goes wrong, you _leave_. You go back to Winterfell and you tell them what’s happened.”

“You do the same,” she said, her hand clenching on his.

His brow furrowed and he let her go, stepping down and running back over to Rhaegal.

Dany’s heart was pounding in her chest as they flew towards the swell of dead. She angled for a pass directly down their ragged front line. Drogon roared as they approached, the other two dragons answering his call. They swooped low as they reached the first ranks and Viserion fell in with her, Jon and Rhaegal coming in from the opposite direction.

Dany looked down, close enough now to see the peeling, frozen flesh of the wights, their blue eyes gazing up at her, and revulsion rolled through her as she shouted to both dragons. “Dracarys!”

Flame lit up the twilight, the roar of it drowning out the sound of the dead. Bodies and earth flew from the impact of the fire, leaving behind smoking gouges in the ground that quickly filled as more wights rushed to take the place of the ones destroyed.

Dany looked out across the army, looking for their leader as an idea started to form in her head. She had all her dragons and she was already engaged against the dead. If she could somehow destroy the Night King, wouldn’t their odds of defeating his army improve? Drogon banked back around and spewed more dragonfire into the army, cutting another huge swath through the dead.

The Army of the Dead started to converge on their location as they circled back around again and again, the dragons devastating the enemy with each pass. But for every wight they destroyed, ten more would take its place until the dead swirled underneath them, Last Hearth seemingly forgotten. Dany knew they had already bought enough time for the refugees to get the head start they needed, but she couldn’t leave yet, not without at least trying to end this war before it started.

It was then that she saw him. The Night King stood back towards the middle of the army, surrounded by White Walkers, calmly watching Dany and her dragons. Dany felt her rage kindle at the sight of him and before she’d even really fully committed to her decision, Drogon was banking over the dead, flying directly for him.

She heard Jon yell something over the wind and turned back to she Rhaegal and Viserion close behind, following. It was when she turned back towards the Night King that she saw the huge spear fly by, barely missing Drogon’s neck.

Her rage sputtered out in a heartbeat, turning to ice cold fear. Jon had warned her about the giants, but she didn’t see any below. She looked at the Night King instinctively and her worst fears were realized. A Walker handed him another spear and he took aim.

Dany called out a warning and Drogon banked away hard. She struggled to look back at the other two dragons through the pull of the turn, seeing Jon watching her as she circled around.  

Consequently, she saw the spear fly when Jon did not.  Dany’s heart stopped at the sight and she screamed a warning at him, already knowing it was going to be too late. She watched the huge spear punch through Rhaegal’s wing and the dragon dip dangerously in the sky. Jon was thrown around on the scaly back as he scrambled for purchase as the two plummeted down.

Rhaegal twisted in the air, his scream terrifying to hear as he slammed into the ground, snow and dirt spraying up around him. Viserion dived after him, his own cry ear piercing. Rhaegal cried out again, lashing out and spewing fire as the dead tried to swarm him.

One of the mounted White Walkers charged towards them and Dany forced Drogon into a dive, needing to do something to protect both Jon and Rhaegal as they fought off the waves of attackers. Viserion beat her to it. The white dragon slammed into the dead horse and rider, driving them into the ground with his claws as he blasted the Walker with dragonfire.  

Just as Drogon pulled up, passing over top of his brother, Dany saw another massive ice spear fly past as if in slow motion. She felt a jolt of surprise when it disappeared into Viserion’s chest, a flash of confusion. The dragonfire he’d been spewing exploded around him from the wound as the dragon’s body jerked, one last terrible scream that pierced Dany’s own heart leaving him before he collapsed in a disjointed pile in the snow. Within moments, the body disappeared under the mass of wights surging towards the other dragon on the ground.

Dany’s scream mingled with Drogon’s as cold numbness and disbelief stole her breath. She saw the Night King himself striding through the wights, space opening around him, another spear in hand as he approached. Panic gripped her as she looked for Jon. He was staring at the Night King as well and then he was urging Rhaegal to fly.

The green dragon’s wings snapped out, knocking the dead back as he struggled to get airborne. It took much longer than it should have and for several long moments, Dany didn’t know if they would make it. Another spear flew towards them, not hitting its mark, and then they were all fleeing from the dead.

Drogon swooped in behind Rhaegal, both dragons’ cries full of pain and a sorrow that Dany felt in her soul. Her mind refused to wrap around what had just happened. She felt frozen, unable to respond, just numb.  She couldn’t think about where they were going or what they should be doing. She could only concentrate on drawing gasping breaths in and out. She could feel something building deep within her, but she tried to ignore it. She saw them pass the train of refugees fleeing Last Hearth and keep going and she didn’t care.

Her child was dead. Viserion was dead. _Viserion was dead._

She felt something break inside of her.

She needed to move, to be on the ground, _now._ Drogon immediately circled down and landed. She jumped off of him, stumbling several feet before she fell to her knees, feeling sick. _Viserion was dead._ She wanted to scream, but she held it back, closing her eyes against the sudden swell of tears. The image of Viserion’s limp, lifeless body emblazed itself on the back of her eyelids so she forced them open, gasping for breath.

She heard footsteps crunch in the snow behind her, then a strong hand gripped her shoulder. A shudder ran through her and she turned as Jon dropped to his knees and pulled her into a tight embrace. The feel of him against her, real and solid and warm— _alive—_ broke through whatever remaining shell she had around her emotions. The sob she’d been holding back ripped from her and she clutched him to her as if he would disappear if she let him go.

He didn’t say anything, didn’t try to comfort her, or sooth her pain with words. He just held her, holding her together as she fell apart. She knew he was hurting too, but she couldn’t deal with anything beyond her own heart wrenching grief.

It was all her fault. She’d done exactly what he had told her not to do because she’d been too proud to realize that she wasn’t invincible. Viserion was dead because of her and she knew it. “It’s my fault,” she whispered raggedly.

Jon made a shushing noise, holding her tighter, his hand moving to the back of her head. “The Night King did this. He’s responsible for all of it. And he’ll pay, Dany. We’ll make him pay.”

She started to pull back. “Rhaegal—” she started to ask in a panic.

“He’s well. I think he'll be able to fly back tomorrow.”

Her pounding heart slowed slightly and exhaustion suddenly hit her hard. Her arms and legs felt heavy and it was just too hard to fight against it. She pulled herself closer to Jon until she was almost curled in his lap. He sighed and wrapped his arms tighter around her small frame.

Dany didn’t know how much time passed, only that it was fully dark by the time they saw the lights from the trail of fleeing northerners approach. At some point, Jon had moved them back near Drogon and collected a small amount of kindling for a fire. The heat from the dragon and the flame was barely enough to keep the sharp winter chill away.

Several horses with riders carrying torches approached, obviously drawn by the random fire in the darkness. As they got closer, the dragon’s stirred, one letting loose a warning call, the other shooting flame into the night.

The torches wavered erratically as the horses panicked and the riders fought to control them. The sound of swords being drawn rang through the cold air.  

Dany extricated herself from Jon’s arms and stood, wiping the last remnants of tears from her cheeks and straightening her shoulders. Her brief escape from her duties was over. She buried the pain and anger and guilt back down to be brought out at another time. It was hard. She still felt raw and battered but she tried to ignore it.

Jon stood as well, frowning. “Dany, you don’t have to—”

But she did. If he gave her the excuse to turn her back on these people and crawl back into her grief, she didn’t know if she would have the strength to say no. She looked at him and he fell silent. She knew her expression had to be cold when he frowned, the firelight reflecting off the deep crease in his brow. She turned away and strode forward towards the men. He appeared at her side a moment later, his hand on Longclaw’s hilt warily.

They stepped in to the light of the torches and she saw the shock cross the men’s faces.  The man at the front jumped off his horse, falling to one knee. “Your Graces,” the man said, his face holding more than a little awe. Dany recognized the sigil of House Umber on his armor. “What are you doing out here alone? The dead are on the move.”

Dany looked back at Rhaegal who was curled around a small outcrop behind them, obviously in need of rest. “We require horses,” she said, her voice sounding smaller than she was used to.

The man nodded and stood, turning and speaking to the soldiers behind him, looking relieved to be away from the dragons.

Jon leaned closer to her. “You should take Drogon and fly for Winterfell.”

She turned to him, the grief welling in her. “No,” she said simply.

“Dany—” he started.

“I said no,” she said again, her voice whip sharp. She _couldn’t_ leave Rhaegal or Jon behind so close to the front line of the army of the dead.

One of the men reappeared with two mounts. Jon stepped forward and took the reins, his expression anything but happy. “We’re riding through the night,” the man said. “We can’t afford to stop with the dead behind us.”

“We understand,” Jon said. “Did Lord Umber get out of Last Hearth in time?” he asked.

“I believe so, Your Grace, though we’ve had to use riders to get information from the back of the line. The ravens haven’t been flying straight for days.”

“If he’s alive, I’d like to speak to him.”

“Of course, Your Grace.” He glanced at Dany “There are several carts if you’d like some rest, Your Grace.”

“I’ll ride,” she said in a clipped voice, unable to muster the courtesy she normally would have given the man. She just wanted to be left alone.

Jon nodded to the man who started to leave then stopped, turning back. “Thank you, My King, My Queen,” he gave them each a small bow, “for coming to our aid. I don’t think we would have made it out without you.” He appeared about to say more but stopped, instead bowing low before turning and striding back towards the trail of torchlight.

 Dany watched him go, a new wave of sadness settling over her. Jon turned back to her with a determined look on his face “Winterfell needs to know what happened. They have to get word to the Lannister army somehow, tell them to march for Winterfell instead of Last Hearth. You can go tonight. Rhaegal can rest and take me back tomorrow.”

Dany knew he was right but didn’t want him to be. She didn’t want to let him or her other dragon out of her sight.

Jon stepped up to her, cupping her face in both of his hands. “Please, Dany,” he said softly, the pain in his own eyes an echo of her own. “I’ll be right behind you.”

She closed her eyes, swallowing down the protest that wanted to spill out. She was the queen. She had to act like one. Not like a grieving mother or a woman in love, but a queen. She opened her eyes, meeting his again, and nodded once.

His whole body slumped with relief when she did, and he pulled her into him. “Thank you.”

“If you’re not back by sunset, I’m coming back for you,” she said grimly.

“I would expect no less.”


	9. Chapter 9

Sansa watched the single dragon fly over Winterfell and tried to tell herself that everything was okay, that the feeling of dread she felt was an overreaction. She wanted to run, but forced herself to walk to the castle catwalk overlooking the fields around Winterfell, and waited. As she watched Daenerys land her dragon, and the Blood Riders ride out to meet her, she waited with her eyes on the horizon for Jon to appear. He always came back. He’d told her not to worry.

When the queen made it back to the castle and passed through the gate, Sansa broke from her vigil, this time letting herself run back down to the courtyard. Two Dothraki grabbed her and pushed her back, keeping her several feet away from the silver haired queen. The woman glanced at her and Sansa went cold as she recognized the despondent look in her eyes. She knew that look had appeared on her own face enough times in the past. Sansa started forward again and again the Dothraki blocked her.

“Touch her again and you are both loosing fingers,” a voice said behind Sansa. She turned to find her sister there, both hands on her weapons.

One of the huge men said something in a guttural language that Sansa didn’t recognized. When he took another step forward, Arya’s slim sword flashed out and the man pulled his hand back with a curse, blood streaming from a shallow cut on his hand.

The Dothraki growled and his free hand moved for the arakh on his back. Just as Sansa realized she had to do something before the situation devolved into an actual fight, Daenerys said something in the foreign language, her voice like a whip. The two Dothraki scowled but stepped back out of the way.

“Where is he?” Sansa demanded, taking the few remaining steps to block the Dragon Queen’s path.

Sansa could almost see the mask settle over the other woman’s face, the cold indifference that Sansa was used to seeing covering up whatever was underneath. “I need to speak with the Small Council,” she said coolly and stepped around the younger woman.

Sansa grabbed Daenerys’ arm, letting go immediately when the Dragon Queen turned on her, fire in her eyes. “I know you’re the Queen, and you don’t owe me anything. You don’t even like me very much. But Jon _is_ our brother and we are worried about him.”

Daenerys looked between her and Arya, and Sansa saw a small crack appear in her façade. Fear gripped Sansa’s heart at what she saw underneath. Something terrible had happened. “Is he alive?” she forced herself to ask, keeping her voice level.

A ripple of something passed over the Daenerys’ face, but she nodded. “He’s alive and traveling with the Umbers. He will arrive at Winterfell by sundown. I need you to call our Small Council. I have information that we all need to hear.”

Sansa watched her go, her fear just ratcheting up even higher.

“What in seven hells does that even mean?” Arya asked what Sansa was thinking. “Why would Jon be traveling with the Umbers? They’re supposed to be defending Last Hearth.”

“Something happened at Last Hearth,” Sansa said, knowing that whatever it was couldn’t be good.

“And of course Jon sent her back alone,” Arya grumbled with a shake of her head.

“I don’t think anyone could _send_ her anywhere,” Sansa replied.

Arya glanced at her sister. “Maybe that’s what we should be worried about—that she agreed to leave him. Whatever happened must be really bad.”

“Why should that matter? Jon left her in King’s Landing for weeks.”

“You weren’t there. You didn’t get to deal with the queen on a daily basis. It was like having an actual dragon living in the Red Keep…an angry one.”

Ser Davos walked up to them, looking around with a frown. “My Lady,” he said to both of them. “Where’s Jon?”

“That is the question,” Sansa replied.

“He didn’t come back with the queen? That can’t be good.”

“She is calling the Small Council. I’m sure we will find out more then.”

Ser Davos sighed. “I better go round up the lords then. I’m sure Tyrion won’t be happy either.”

* * *

 

Dany stood in front of the massive weirwood tree, staring at the bleeding face carved into the wood and trying to pull herself back together. She was so tired, but every time she closed her eyes she would see Viserion collapsing into the snow, over and over and over again. So she stayed awake, trying to concentrate on her duty. She had to meet with the Small Council soon, and she couldn’t afford to appear weak even though she knew that most of the people there had her best interest at heart. She bowed her head and swallowed down her grief once again, her hands twisting together in front of her.

Something brushed her back and she spun, ready to rein down fire and blood on whoever had the gall to disturb her. Instead she was met with two blood red eyes staring back at her. She backed up a step in shock at the huge direwolf and his silent appearance.

Ghost regarded her silently and after a few moments she held out her hand hesitantly. He sniffed and then licked her and his ears perked up even farther, seemingly happy to see her. She let out a long sigh and moved her hand over his head, her fingers sinking into the thick white fur of his neck. The look in the wolf’s red eyes reminded her forcible of Jon and before she could stop herself, she’d wrapped her arms around Ghost’s neck, her face buried in his fur.

The direwolf made a small whining sound, his head resting on her shoulder, and she couldn’t stop the tears that leaked traitorously from her closed eyes. After a few moments she let him go, sitting down at the base of the weirwood to compose herself once again. He laid down next to her, his big head in her lap.

Dany stroked his ears, trying to take in the quiet solitude as her mind raced. She couldn’t stop thinking of Viserion, which would in turn lead her to think about Jon, which would send her thoughts spiraling to the child growing inside her and all the fears she had associated with that, leading her right back to Viserion. It was a vicious cycle that she couldn’t break.

“She told me death pays for life,” Dany whispered, thinking of Miri Maz Duur’s curse. Ghost lifted his head, his red eyes meeting hers. “Maybe this was the cost. Maybe Viserion was living on borrowed time.” The thought made her sad beyond words, regretting her past actions, her rashness, more than ever. It seemed others would never stop paying the price for her foolishness.

Ghost abruptly jumped to his feet, the hair down his back standing up and his head dropping low.

Dany stood slowly and froze as a low growl emanated from the huge wolf, sending a shiver down her own spine. “Who’s there?” she asked, the question a command.

She saw movement through the trees and then Ser Jorah appeared, walking towards her hesitantly, his gaze on the wolf before her.

“Tyrion sent me to find you, My Queen,” he said, stopping several feet away when Ghost let out an angry snarl. “The Small Council is waiting.”

Dany laid a hand on the wolf’s head and he quieted but didn’t completely settle, his gaze still locked on Jorah. She hadn’t seen much of her old friend since their return from Eastwatch. He’d respectfully kept his distance when her growing affection for Jon had become apparent to everyone. She understood it, understood the deep seated feelings he still had for her, but regardless, she missed his company. “Tell Tyrion I’ll be there in a moment,” she said.

Jorah nodded then looked at her hesitantly. “Are you all right, Your Grace? You don’t seem yourself.”

Dany smiled sadly. Jorah always did know when something was wrong. “I will be.” She started forward, deciding she wanted to get the meeting over with instead of delaying any longer. Jorah fell in next to her, keeping a safe distance away from the wolf still at her side. “Are they in the Great Hall?”

“No, Lady Sansa had a smaller chamber prepared. Said it would be more private.”

Dany nodded and allowed him to lead her to their destination.

The room appeared to be a small library, perhaps a previous lord’s private collection, Dany wasn’t sure. In any case, she found it ideal for its purpose. Her small Council of Tyrion, Varys, Grey Worm, and Missandei sat on one side of the wooden table set in the center of the room, and the Stark girls and their brother Bran sat on the other with Ser Davos and Lady Brienne. Jorah moved to stand off to the side and Dany moved to her seat, painfully aware of the empty chair directly across from her, the only vacant spot at the table.

She sat, twisting her mother’s ring around her finger under the table. “We found the Army of the Dead,” she said without preamble. “They were marching on Last Hearth when we arrived. A hundred thousand at least, with mammoths and giants as well.”

Every face looked grim. “Did the castle fall?” Varys asked, ever the pragmatist.

She forced herself to nod. “The Umbers and most of the small folk fled before the dead arrived.”

“Then where is Jon?” Sansa asked in a low voice.

“He’s traveling with the Umbers. His dragon was injured.” That caused some shuffling about the table. She steeled herself and plunged on. “Viserion is dead.”

The silence that greeted her was deafening. She could hear every beat of her own heart pounding in her ears, each of her shallow indrawn breaths. She looked down at the table, swallowing down the lump in her throat that saying the words aloud brought.

She saw movement out of the corner of her eye, and turning, saw Jorah kneel next to her chair. He reached out and gripped one of her hands. “I am so sorry, Your Grace,” he said in a soft voice and she had to fight back the tears that welled in her eyes. She could only nod her appreciation at the gesture, unable to speak.

His grip tightened then he let go and stood, backing away. She looked back at the rest gathered at the table and the mix of shocked, angered, and saddened expressions.

“We have to get word to my brother,” Tyrion said after another tense, silent moment. “They’ll be marching directly into the enemy if we don’t.”

“The men at Last Hearth said their ravens weren’t flying. They hadn’t received one in days. I don’t know if we can assume a message by raven will make it to our southern allies,” Dany said.

“You _cannot_ go out there again alone,” Tyrion said, his voice firm. “Look what happened this time!”

Dany turned to him, cold anger sparking inside of her. “Tell me I _cannot_ do something again, and I’ll find myself a new Hand.”

Tyrion swallowed, frowning. “I’m trying to advise you—”

“Then _advise_ ,” she said deliberately, her teeth clenched, barely holding her rage in check.

He looked down at the table, obviously collecting himself. “We send the ravens anyway, perhaps some will get through. And we send riders. Hopefully one or the other will make it in time.”

Dany stood, her fists clenched. “Send what you will. In the end, I’ll do what I must.”

“Is the other dragon severely injured?” Arya asked. “Will Jon have to stay with the Umbers the entire way back to Winterfell? Seems to me they’re still in quite a lot of danger, being so close to the Army of the Dead.”

“And what is our plan when the dead dragon returns?” Davos asked.

Dany looked up at that, feeling chilled as the rest of the room fell silent at the question.

“What do you mean?” Tyrion asked in the quiet.

Davos’ face was grim. “We know the Walkers have raised horses. We’ve seen them riding the dead beasts. And the Queen herself reported seeing undead mammoths roaming with the army. What’s to stop them from bringing the dragon back? The body wasn’t burned, was it?”

All eyes turned to Daenerys, but she couldn’t respond. She pressed her hands harder into the wood of the table, trying to ground herself as her vision tunneled and a buzzing started in her ears. She knew people were talking, but she couldn’t really hear them. All she could think of was the image of Viserion’s broken copse rising again, his eyes lit with the Night King’s corrupt power.

She stumbled away from the main table, ignoring the calls after her, and managed to make it to the hall before she was sick. She emptied the contents of her already empty stomach on the stone floor, covering her mouth at the dry heave that followed.

“Your Grace, are you unwell?” Tyrion asked, obviously worried as he stopped a few feet away, Missandei and Jorah close behind, similar looks on their face.

“I’m fine,” she said, straightening, even though she felt anything but.

“You were on dragonback for a day and then a full night. When was the last time you slept, Your Grace?” Jorah asked, stepping forward. “Or ate?”

Dany closed her eyes, trying to steady herself and the dizziness she felt. “It doesn’t matter. We should continue the meeting.” She opened her eyes and started to walk past them.

She realized she wasn’t going to make it after about two steps. Her vision dimmed again and her last coherent thought was that she needed to sit down before she fell.

* * *

 

Sansa watched the last of the Small Council leave and closed the door with a heavy sigh. She turned back to her siblings not knowing where to start.

“Do they know what’s wrong with her?” Arya asked. She was sitting on the table in the middle of the room, flipping her Valyrian steel dagger over and over in her hand.

“Maester Wolkan is checking on her in Jon’s rooms. Gods know she hasn’t used her own,” Sansa said, pushing away from the door and coming to pace near her chair.

“You know if she dies, we’re fucked, right?” Arya said, leaning forward.

Sansa refrained from rolling her eyes. She loved her sister and was beyond happy that she was home, but that didn’t stop her from being annoyed with her half the time. “I am aware of our situation.”

“She’s not going to die,” Bran said softly and both girls turned to look at him. If Sansa found herself mostly annoyed with Arya, she didn’t know how she felt about Bran. Every time she talked with her brother, she walked away unnerved, so she found reasons to avoid him whenever possible. She didn’t understand the strange powers that he had returned with, and she couldn’t bring herself to ask him about them. He’d mostly kept to himself since his return, staying in the Godswood for hours at a time.

“And how do you know that?” Arya asked before Sansa could work herself around to it.

“She’s with child.”

Sansa turned and looked at her brother, hiding her shock. “And how do you know _that_?”

Bran gave a small sigh and Sansa thought she saw a glimmer of her old sibling. “I can see the past and I can see the present. Maester Wolkan told Tyrion a few moments ago.”

Arya’s dagger stilled in her hands. “You can see anything that’s happening? Can you see where Jon is?”

Bran’s brow furrowed and he slowly shook his head. “It’s…complicated. There’s so much. You don’t understand how much is out there. Sometimes I just see things, and I don’t know why they’re important, why I should care. And if I _want_ to see, I have to know some specifics to be able to look for it. It’s so easy to get lost. When I look for Jon…” He shook his head again. “I see parts of his past. He’s so close to the Night King…” A shudder ran through him. “If I’m not careful, _he_ could find me. It’s too dangerous for _all_ of us.” He was silent for a long moment then looked up at his sisters. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

Sansa frowned, not understanding. Nothing ever made sense anymore. “Jon will come back. He always does.”

Arya jumped off the table. “Saying it doesn’t make it true. I’m going to see how good those Dothraki bloodriders, or whatever they’re called, really are.”

“Arya, they’re our guests. You can’t go around antagonizing them just because you’re bored.”

“And they’re guarding our niece or nephew now, aren’t they?  Father always said, in winter, Starks must protect ourselves.”

“A Targaryen,” Bran said, not looking up.

Arya glanced at him, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Our blood, however you want to call it. I’m not about to explain to Jon why something happened to them right under our nose.”

“It’s Winterfell. What could happen to them here?” She paused, her heart sinking. “At least, until an undead dragon brings the walls down on top of us all…”

Her sister tilted her head, holding up the catspaw dagger in her hand. “All of us here know that nowhere is truly safe.”

Sansa sighed and nodded towards the door. Arya was gone a moment later. Sansa glanced at Bran who still sat looking into the hearth, his expression the same as it always was. “If you See anything, you’ll tell us, right?”

Bran looked at her and Sansa suppressed a shudder. “When I see something that matters.”

She had to force herself not to run from the room as she, too, left.

* * *

 

Dany awoke lying on a bed. Something warm was pressed along the length of her and she turned her head to find Ghost sprawled next to her, fast asleep. She sat up slowly, looking down to see she was still in her dress from early, then glanced around the room, surprised to see that they were Jon’s.

“Sansa had you brought here. She said you hadn’t been to your own rooms since you first arrived,” a voice said next to her.

She looked over at Tyrion sitting in a chair next to the bed, his face grim. “How long?”

“Not long. Just long enough for my heart to stop and Maester Wolkan to have a quick look at you.” Tyrion shook his head. “He said it was a very standard case of exhaustion, grief, and the small matter of you being with child. Congratulations, by the way.”

Dany sighed and pushed up, leaning back against the pillows. “You’re angry.”

“Angry?” Tyrion shook his head quickly back and forth. “Why would I be angry? Relieved that this entire succession issue I’ve been wracking my brain about is now a nonissue, yes. Perplexed as to why my Queen wouldn’t tell her Hand of such an important development, also yes. Angry?” he shrugged, the sarcasm dripping off him. “Of course not.”

Dany couldn’t feel anything besides wrung out. She was too tired, emotionally and physically. “I didn’t tell you because then it would have been real. I wasn’t ready.”

Tyrion sighed and slumped back in his chair, running his hands over his face. “I’m sorry about Viserion, truly sorry. I know what the dragons mean to you.”

Dany nodded and looked away, unable to deal with the sympathy. “Do you think Davos was right?” she asked finally after a long silent moment. “That the Night King will raise Viserion.”

“I don’t know, but I think it’s something we need to prepare for.”

She nodded, falling silent. She knew Tyrion wanted to say more, but he too stayed quiet, eventually standing.

“Sleep, Your Grace. I’ll wake you if there’s any word. We can talk more later.” He forced a smile and then left, the door quietly clicking shut behind him.

Dany settled back into the pillows and furs, tucking her back against the direwolf’s, soaking in his heat. But despite her exhaustion, she couldn’t fall asleep. Her mind raced as she stared at the freshly stoked fire, unable to slow despite her best efforts. She forced her eyes closed, trying to ignore the images the darkness brought.

She hadn’t even realized she’d been asleep when she jerked awake hours later, still not feeling rested. She sat up with a frown, knowing something was wrong, but having trouble placing it through the haze of sleep.

“Are you all right?” a voice asked and she looked over to see Jon’s sister Arya stand from where she’d been sitting by the fireplace. The fire was licking away at fresh logs and Dany assumed the girl had kept it going through her sleep.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded, pushing the covers back and swinging her legs off the side of the bed, but not yet standing.

“We really need to talk about your guards,” Arya replied with a small half smile. “You’re family now. I’m still unsure about your motives, but it wouldn’t do for something to happen to you before I can make up my mind.”

Dany couldn’t help the small smirk that slipped onto her face. The Stark girls were slowly growing on her as well. She was about to reply when her gaze slid to the window and the darkness outside.

Arya stood. “What is it?”

Dany’s hands fisted in the blankets. It was past sunset. Jon hadn’t returned.


End file.
